


Wet Hot Avengers Summer

by Sarea Okelani (sarea)



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clint & Coulson friendship feels, Clint & Tony friendship and annoyance feels, Clint plays the guitar, F/M, I'm Sorry, Pre-Avengers Movie, SHIELD camp, Summer Camp, Tony Bruce & Thor are very protective, also idiots, fluffy fluff, teenage avengers, this is so full of crack, waaaaaay AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 20:36:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarea/pseuds/Sarea%20Okelani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At summer camp, Clint’s met the girl of his dreams. Then he meets her four brothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-Avengers. Like, waaaaaay pre-Avengers. Also AU. Waaaaaaaay AU. They're teenagers at summer camp. For the purposes of making this work, the characters are nearly all around the same age. Total fluffy crackfic. This was supposed to be written for the be_compromised promptathon, but... yeah... I waved at that deadline as it blew past. But the prompt was from inkvoices: _Kid/Teenage AU: Clint is at a music camp and either Natasha is too, or she's at dance camp or martial arts camp on the other side of the lake_ – except I made it the same camp and they’re in different classes and everyone co-mingles. The title comes from the movie _Wet Hot American Summer,_ but isn’t any kind of crossover or inspiration, other than that it is also about summer camp. Many thanks to Jade, who's betaing this for me, though she'll more than likely live to regret it. I'm pretty sure there's going to be eight parts.

"Wet Hot Avengers Summer"  
by Sarea Okelani

//\\\

The roundhouse she executes is perfect, even Clint understands that, even though he doesn’t know anything about martial arts. And it’s even more impressive because she does it in slow motion, her body balancing in a way that a normal person’s just doesn’t. The instructor is standing next to her, not talking to her but addressing the other students, clearly using the girl’s perfect form for demonstration purposes. Clint can hear the instructor’s voice, but from where he’s standing, it’s impossible to make out the actual words.

He feels like some sort of peeping Tom, spying on another class from afar like this, but his guitar session was dismissed early and he was on his way to the lake. The doors to the martial arts classroom are open, probably to let in some air on a warm day, which is how he first caught sight of the girl. Clint has never in his life seen a girl like this.

They don’t make girls like this in Iowa.

She has red hair, which she’s tied back into a pony tail, but it’s a bit too short for the hair-tie thing all the girls seem to use, so a few strands are framing her face. She’s not tall, but she’s strong – he can see the definition of her muscles because she’s wearing only shorts and a tank top – and confidence practically pours off her in waves. The set of her features is serious, her posture is ramrod straight; none of that slouching other teenage girls take so much pride in. Clint can only see her profile, but it’s enough to know that she’s beautiful, which is weird because he doesn’t think he’s ever thought that about a girl before. If they’re attractive, they’re usually just ‘cute,’ ‘hot,’ or ‘pretty.’

Without warning, she turns and sees him staring. Clint should be embarrassed, should look away, should maybe even give her a sheepish smile for having been caught out. But he’s not and he doesn’t. Her initial look of annoyance changes into something else as she stares right back.

The instructor seems to call her name, and when she doesn’t respond, a hand falls on her shoulder to get her attention.

The spell is broken. It’s not like him to stare unabashedly at a strange girl, no matter how attractive she is. In fact, usually, the more attractive the girl, the more uncomfortable he is. There’s really no excuse for what he was doing. She probably thinks he’s a creep, or a psycho stalker. Well that’s just perfect. Phil’s parents are nice enough to cover his camp fees and he’ll repay them with a phone call from a camp counselor telling them that Clint’s been harassing the girls.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and continues on his way. He can’t bring himself to be sorry about encountering her, though, even if he ended up looking like some kind of a freak.

What’s done is done, and the girl probably forgot all about him the second they lost eye contact, anyway.

//\\\

“We need more mashed potatoes!” Clint hollers toward the back of the kitchen.

“Okay, mashed potatoes, got it!” Bobbi answers cheerfully.

Phil slops some peas onto the tray held out to him and says to Clint in an undertone, “She likes you.”

Startled, Clint looks over his shoulder at Bobbi, whose blonde hair is pulled into a hairnet and who is tossing margarine and a jug of milk into a large vat filled with steaming potatoes. As if sensing his gaze, she turns and gives him a wide smile. Uncomfortable at being caught, Clint looks away and keeps spooning mashed potatoes onto the endless trays that appear before him.

Newcomers to Camp SHIELD (where teenagers learn Skills Honing, Imagination Enhancement, and Leadership Development) are required to do a rotation of kitchen patrol, which everyone calls KP duty. Despite many of the other campers’ bellyaching, Clint doesn’t mind it. It’s a hell of a lot easier than some of the other things he’s had to do in his life. The others, he knows, want to be eating with their friends, not preparing the food or serving it. But Clint doesn’t have any friends other than Phil, and Phil’s here right along with him.

Other campers keep holding their trays out to him, and Clint keeps slopping on potatoes. He runs out and Bobbi hands him a new container. All the faces pass by quickly; he barely looks at anyone anymore as he methodically serves. But something makes him look up. Maybe because the tray hasn’t been held out to him to fill like he’s a robot.

Clint feels his stomach twist in a weird way. It’s her. The redheaded girl from the martial arts class. He hopes she’s not going to call him out on the way he’d stared at her.

“Uh, potatoes?” he asks. His hesitation causes a noticeable delay in the line, which in turn causes the other campers waiting behind the girl to start fidgeting restlessly.

Instead of saying “yes” or “no,” she says, “Are they any good?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, despite not having actually tasted any yet. He assumes Bobbi knows what she’s doing, and anyway, mashed potatoes are always good.

“Then okay,” she says, and holds out her tray.

Clint is careful to put the serving of potatoes on her plate neatly so that it doesn’t slop out to the sides. After she leaves, the same rhythm as before starts up again, and Clint’s movements are automatic. But his heart is racing a bit from the encounter. He actually talked to her. More importantly, _she_ had spoken to _him_. About mashed potatoes, yes, but still it was thrilling. He’d liked her voice, deeper than he’d expected, but feminine all the same.

“Stop it right now,” Phil says, after the redheaded girl has left the line and Clint’s lost sight of her. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Huh?”

“That girl,” Phil clarifies, and Clint is dismayed that anyone else – even Phil – had taken notice of an encounter that he’d already been thinking of as private, as his. “Do you know who she is?”

“No,” Clint mumbles. Scoop and serve. Scoop and serve. He doesn’t want a name to the face, or reality to intrude on fantasy. He doesn’t want her to be Someone. He doesn’t want it to be complicated. But somehow, it always is.

“Her name’s Natasha,” Phil says, and strangely enough, learning her name doesn’t dampen Clint’s interest. It’s unusual enough that it actually whets it. Natasha. It’s beautiful and mysterious, which suits her. “I’ve already heard a couple of guys putting dibs on her.”

“You can’t put dibs on a girl,” Clint objects automatically, but he knows what Phil means. Other guys have already voiced their intention to pursue her in some way. He knows it’s over with the girl before it’s even started. Girls like that do not like social misfits who’d rather spend time with a guitar than interacting with actual people, or whose circle of friends currently includes one person. Still, he feels a sense of loss. He didn’t have a realistic shot to begin with, but it’s one thing to assume, and another thing entirely to _know_. 

“Well anyway, that’s not the main reason you should stay away,” amends Phil, who is apparently well versed on all the camp news worth knowing. “There are actually four main reasons.”

“Boyfriends?” Clint guesses.

“Worse,” Phil says. “Brothers.”

Clint doesn’t see how that’s worse than the girl he likes having four boyfriends, but Phil points them out after they finish their shift and sit down at an empty table to eat. Thor is someone Clint pretty much hates on sight, because the guy looks like every stereotypical jock who’s ever flushed a nerd’s head down a toilet. He’s good looking to the point of distraction, and is surrounded by girls who fawn over his every word. He’s also huge, but looks like he’d be fast, and Clint knows he’d never stand a chance in a fist fight. Tony is as dark as Thor is light. He’s smaller and lankier, but even from here Clint can tell he has the kind of effortless arrogance that seems to appeal to girls in droves. Clint likes his chances better in a one on one fight with this guy, but Tony has Thor as backup and Clint has Phil, who is as loyal as they come, but isn’t exactly a beefy dude. The third guy Phil points out is Bruce, who’s definitely not as showy as his brothers, sitting quietly at the end of the table reading a book. Clint is bigger and probably scrappier, but he’s learned from past experience never to underestimate an opponent.

“What’s his deal?” Clint says warily.

“Anger management issues,” Phil says. At Clint’s skeptical look he continues, “I’m serious. I heard he burned down his last school and took out four guys on his own. Two of them ended up in the hospital.”

“Bad trip?” Clint suggests. That or some crazy adrenaline rush that takes over in cases of extreme fear or stress. He’d once read about a lady who’d lifted a car to save her baby from being crushed.

Phil shrugs. “Does it matter?”

Clint supposes it doesn’t. “Okay, so who’s the fourth brother?” he asks, though at this point he doesn’t really want to know.

“Look behind you,” answers Phil.

Clint twists and sees a clean-cut counselor talking with another, Maria. “Steve?” he says disbelievingly. “ _Steve_ is her brother, too?” He likes Steve, a lot. He’s decent to Clint and treats everyone fairly. But of course, that was before Clint had the hots for his sister.

“Yeah,” Phil says, shoveling in a forkful of meatloaf. “So I _dare_ you to make a move on her now.”

Clint sighs and digs into his chocolate pudding. He’d been looking forward to the dessert all night, but he’s so demoralized that he’s only able to eat two helpings instead of his normal four.

//\\\

After one of his guitar sessions a week later, Clint goes to his favorite spot to practice. The small clearing is quiet and secluded, which is perfect because he’s not big on audiences, and his cabin, while likely to be deserted at this time of day, isn’t nearly as nice. There’s a bench so someone else at some point must have thought it was nice too, but most of the campers prefer to hang out at the lake or by the snack bar when they have free time. Clint generally likes his own space, likes the peace and quiet when other people aren’t around. Phil knows that about him and is understanding, which is one of the reasons they get along.

Clint’s in the middle of screwing up one of the most difficult pieces he’s ever attempted when he hears the sound of someone approaching. Blowing hair out of his eyes in irritation, he waits for the person to either pass or make some snide remark – he’s prepared to ignore either.

Instead, in a voice that makes his spine tingle, he hears, “What was that? It was pretty.”

Clint turns to see Natasha appearing out of the foliage. Her Daisy Dukes reveal long, shapely legs, and she wears a top that has flowers embroidered on the collar, pink Converse sneakers and no socks. Clint feels his mouth go dry and forces himself to relax.

“That wasn’t pretty,” he says ruefully. “If I played it right, it would be. It’s called _Anji_.”

He thinks she’ll pass right on by, but she surprises him by sitting down on the opposite end of the bench. “I could tell it was supposed to be pretty,” she says with a grin. “Did you write it?”

“Hell no,” Clint says. He has no talent for composition. He loves coaxing music out of the strings, but he’s never been good at song writing. “It was written by a guy named Davey Graham, but Simon and Garfunkel made it popular.” God, why is he telling her this? She can’t possibly care.

Natasha doesn’t seem to mind, though, drawing her knees up to her chest and propping her head against a fist. She looks at him with half-lowered eyelids. “Play something else.”

Clint looks at her, amazed. No one has ever asked him to play for them before. Not that he really gives anyone a chance to, but still. He can’t say no to her, so he plays some Williams, some Cash, some Nelson. In desperation he even plays some Dixie Chicks, but she makes a face at everything. “Not a country girl, I guess,” he says.

She smiles a little. “I guess not.”

“Okay, what about this,” he says, and plays some Lynyrd Skynyrd, followed by Led Zeppelin, Guns n’ Roses, and a little Eddie Vedder (his solo and _Into the Wild_ material, not Pearl Jam). This is more her speed, and she taps her foot and hums a bit while he plays. Clint’s surprised by how steady his hands are, how comfortable he feels even though he should be a nervous wreck, playing the guitar for a beautiful girl he’s undeniably attracted to.

“This, I like this,” she says, and closes her eyes as he starts up ‘Yesterday.’ He actually wants to play ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand,’ because it’s fun and less melancholy, but he doesn’t want her to take it the wrong way. He wouldn’t be opposed, of course, to holding her hand, but it’s not something he’s prepared to declare at this moment. “You have a nice voice.”

Clint ducks his head self consciously. He hadn’t actually meant to sing, had refrained with the other pieces, but it was impossible to play this particular song without singing along. For him, anyway. He cuts off abruptly when he hears far-off voices. They’re calling Natasha’s name.

Her eyes pop open. “Shit,” she says. “I guess I’ve avoided them long enough.” She gets up and brushes herself off. “Thanks for letting me interrupt your practice time.”

“No – uh, no problem,” he says, feeling disappointed but knowing his time with her was ordained from the beginning to be limited. It’s frankly strange that he got as much as he did.

“What’s your name, anyway?” she asks.

“Clint Barton,” he says.

“I’m Natasha.”

 _I know_ is on the tip of his tongue, but he keeps it to himself. No need to make himself look like a stalker, even though she probably wouldn’t be surprised. Most people seem to know who she is, given that her family seems like royalty around here. “Nice to meet you,” is what he says.

“You were right, by the way.”

He draws a blank. “I was? About what?”

“The mashed potatoes. They were good.”

“Oh. I’m glad.” Something warns him against deferring the credit to where it belongs, with Bobbi Morse.

“Natasha!” the voices call, sounding much nearer.

She heads in that direction, giving him a little wave. “See you around, Clint Barton.”

//\\\

That night, Clint has KP duty again. He tries and fails to be nonchalant, telling himself that he’s not looking for her when he totally is.

The moment he’s been dreading and hoping for comes to pass when Natasha shows up in front of him. “Hi, Clint Barton,” she says with a smile.

Out of the corner of his eye, Clint sees Phil look at him in surprise at Natasha’s familiarity. He ignores the look and Phil’s foot stomping down on his own. “Hi,” he says to Natasha, smiling back.

She points at what he’s holding. “Is that good?”

He can’t remember what he’s serving. Her full pink lips and her voice saying his name have made every other thought fly right out of his head. “Uh...” He looks down and sees yellow kernels. Corn. Right. “It’s okay,” he says finally.

“I’ll take some anyway,” she says. “Just because you’re giving it to me.”

The stainless steel serving spoon trembles only slightly as Clint puts a portion on her plate. He jumps about a foot when Bobbi unceremoniously slams a fresh pot of hot corn near his elbow. He stutters out a thanks, but she doesn’t respond; she’s slightly red in the face and the corners of her mouth are downturned.

Natasha waves a cheerful goodbye and Clint serves the next camper in line, who just happens to be her brother Thor. The much bigger guy is looking at him with a thunderous expression, his blond eyebrows drawn together as he stares Clint down. He keeps his tray held out even after Clint spoons corn onto it, forcing Clint to give him a second portion. Next is Tony, who also looks at Clint as though he’s a disgusting worm that just crawled out from under a rock, followed by Bruce, who had seemed so innocuous from far away, but up close Clint swears he can see insanity in the guy’s eyes. Even after Clint serves him, Bruce keeps staring at him as he goes to the next station.

Clint wonders if his gulp is audible.

“Well, you’ve done it now,” Phil says.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the people who have been so encouraging on AO3 and LJ. You guys deserve ALL THE HUGS. You get the next part of the story instead.

//\\\

Their weekends are generally theirs to do with as they please, so after lunch one day Clint and Phil head down to the lake to play some one-on-one water volleyball. It seems like the entire camp is there. Towels are spread out everywhere, and sun worshippers, shiny from tanning lotion, are sleeping under the sun’s merciless rays.

Clint spots Natasha immediately. He seems to have some sort of homing beacon on her, some sixth sense of wherever she is at any given moment. She’s sitting on a towel under an oversized umbrella, keeping her fair skin protected. Phil identifies the girls she’s with: Pepper, an extremely thin strawberry blonde who was rumored to be dating Tony; Jane, a petite brunette; and Darcy, another brunette who has a decidedly less childlike figure. But in Clint’s eyes, none of them can remotely compare with Natasha, who looks simply amazing in her baby blue bikini. He’s never understood why it’s taboo for a girl to go around in her underwear, but a bikini, being technically a bathing suit, is okay, even if it reveals more than any girls’ underwear Clint has ever seen (outside of a magazine).

He wants to go over and say hello, but they don’t really know each other all that well, and anyway she’s with her friends. Girls in packs are kind of scary. Anyway, he’s not sure _she’d_ want him to. Clint’s not ashamed of his body; it’s perfectly adequate given all the time he’s spent over the years doing yard work for his various foster families and their neighbors, but he is wearing a rather garish pair of purple swim trunks that Steve found in the Lost and Found bin that has items from time immemorial. Clint’s grateful, of course, that Steve was able to even find a pair that fit him, or he wouldn’t get to swim, but did they have to be _purple_? Clint has zero doubt that their previous owner had “forgotten” them at camp on purpose.

“Don’t even go there, Barton,” Phil says, reading his friend accurately.

“I wasn’t,” Clint protests, lying through his teeth.

“Uh huh.”

It doesn’t matter, anyway, as presently Natasha’s brothers show up, heading toward the girls in question. Thor and Natasha immediately start arguing – from what little Clint is able to overhear, and from their gestures, it seems there’s some disagreement over the decency of Natasha’s bathing suit. Natasha flat out refuses to change, a stubborn look coming over her face, and she gestures toward Jane, which makes Thor take notice of what the brunette is wearing, and the same argument seems to start again, except with Jane instead of Natasha this time. Tony and Bruce have stayed out of the argument. Tony has engaged Pepper in conversation, while Bruce, unsmiling, takes a seat next to Darcy.

Clint follows Phil out to the middle of the lake, where it’s deeper, and they hit the water polo ball back and forth. Phil is on the water volleyball team at their high school, and while Clint doesn’t participate in school sports, he’s always been a natural athlete and keeps up with Phil easily. Since they’ve known each other – going on six months now, which is twice as long as the last two foster homes he’d been at before Anna and Paul had taken him in – Phil has tried to get him to join a team, any team, but it’s just not Clint’s style. He’s never really gone in for any of that, and anyway, there’s no point joining a team at school when he might have to leave unexpectedly before the season’s even over. Phil serves the ball toward him and it’s at the perfect angle for Clint to deliver a beautiful spike, the ball smacking down in the water in front of Phil’s face, splashing everywhere. Phil splutters, and the waves from his movements float the ball fairly far.

“Go get it, asshole,” says Phil.

Clint laughs. “As if. You got owned. Loser gets the ball.” As they argue, the ball drifts further and further away, especially as it approaches other swimmers, whose activities cause it to drift away even faster.

Grumbling, Phil swims after the ball. Clint treads water and takes the opportunity to glance toward shore. Natasha’s brothers are still there, scowling suspiciously at anyone who approaches. Well, Clint thinks, at least if he can’t be near her, he doesn’t have to worry about anyone else getting near her, either. Except... he frowns. Natasha’s no longer there. He looked just five minutes ago and she was still in the same spot, but now she’s gone. Maybe she decided to go swimming. He tries to spot her, but there are just too many people. His sixth sense is failing him, he decides.

Suddenly, a hand clamps around his ankle, and by the time he registers this, Clint’s pulled hard underwater. He barely has time to catch a breath, and he tries to twist away from the grip. The hand lets go and taps him on the leg instead, a greeting. Clint makes out a cloud of red hair, and his heart still pounds, but now it’s from something other than panic. He makes for the surface, takes in a lungful of air, then dives back down.

Natasha grins at him under the water. Shapes are a bit murky and green, but he can make her out just fine. She gives Clint a little wave, which he returns. He points upward, but she shakes her head. She holds her hands out to him, so he takes them. When she pulls, he floats toward her easily.

Without warning, she kisses him.

He’s so surprised he doesn’t respond at first, but then he realizes what’s happening and with who, and he kisses her back. It’s weird to kiss someone underwater, he thinks, because they feel cold and warm at the same time, and there’s no breathing, no sound except for the water in their ears. It’s kind of surreal. After what seems like hours, but is in reality only seconds, Natasha makes to pull away. At some point he’d wrapped his arms around her and her bikini-clad chest was pressed up against his, their legs entangled. Clint doesn’t want to let go, but he also doesn’t want her to drown, so he releases his hold on her. 

She puts a finger to her lips, _our little secret_ , and Clint nods to show he understands. Then she swims away and Clint kicks to the surface. He scans the water, looking for her, and it seems to take forever, but he sees her head pop up out of the water some distance away. No one would suspect – no one _does_ suspect – what she’d been doing with Clint just seconds ago.

Water flies in his face as a ball lands in front of him, and Clint coughs, rubbing water out of his eyes.

“It’s your turn next time,” Phil says. “It kept getting away from me. Every time I’d get close, something would happen that would send it rolling away — Barton, are you listening to me?”

“Yeah, bro,” Clint says, but looks toward shore. Natasha has settled back into her original position, and everything seems exactly as it had been six minutes ago.

If it wasn’t for the fact that her hair is damp, Clint would swear he imagined the whole thing.

//\\\

He replays the scene over and over in his mind. He definitely hadn’t imagined it. Natasha had actually kissed him under the lake like some kind of mythical mermaid. He can vaguely remember the feel of her lips, the light touch of her tongue, but the water obscured the finer details, and Clint’s determined to find out what it’s like to kiss her on dry land.

“Mr. Barton, is this class interrupting your daydreaming?”

Clint snaps back to the present, feeling his face warm as the other students titter and Mr. Barclay looks at him with irritation.

“Sorry,” Clint says, abashed, resolved to concentrate on the class. Mr. Barclay resumes his lesson, having each of the eight students play a short selection in turn. Clint’s the second player to go, and he plays his selection without making any mistakes. As the others each have their turn, he can’t prevent his thoughts from drifting to Natasha again.

After class, Mr. Barclay keeps him back. “Clint,” the older man says, lifting his glasses slightly so he can wipe at his watery eyes, “I got the distinct sense that you were not completely with us today.” He holds his hand up when Clint opens his mouth to apologize. “I don’t want to hear that you’re sorry. I just want you to pay attention in class. You have natural talent, but some of these other kids aren’t so lucky—”

“I know, Mr. Barclay,” says Clint. “I wasn’t—”

“I expect more from you. I know you’ve been working on _Anji_ and that’s great. I’d like you to strongly consider playing it for the talent show.”

Clint blanches. Performing, in front of a crowd? At the end-of-camp talent show? He can’t think of anything he wants to do less. Music is a private thing for him. He has no desire to put it on display. “I won’t be ready in time,” he says.

“I have confidence in you, Clint,” Mr. Barclay says, in a tone that Clint recognizes from adults that means they’ve made up their mind and no one’s going to change it, especially not some belligerent sixteen-year-old. “Use some of your free time to practice. And I’m available any time for extra sessions.”

“Yes, sir,” Clint says glumly.

As Clint makes his way to the clearing, he wonders if he can somehow fake an illness the night of the talent show. He has no problem working on the song; he was going to do that anyway. But to have to _perform_ it? He'd rather be tortured. There’s a patch of poison ivy not too far from the arts and crafts area; he seriously considers rolling around in it the day before the show. 

He’s too distracted to play properly, so he forces himself to put the talent show and other distractions out of his mind. Only then is he able to get lost in the music, and he plays _Anji_ all the way through without stopping, just to see if he can. There are still runs that give him trouble, and he stumbles over the trickier parts, but overall it’s a good effort; the best he’s ever done, actually.

There’s light applause when he’s done. Clint looks up, startled, and sees Natasha leaning against a tree. “It’s almost there, isn’t it?” she says, approaching.

“Yeah,” Clint says. “I guess it is.”

Natasha settles down next to him, a lot closer than she’d been the first time. Suddenly Clint is conscious of the fact that his palms are sweaty, and the bulk of his guitar is an unwelcome obstacle. The sun shines off her scarlet curls in an eye-catching way, and he notices that her teeth, while even and white, are just slightly off center. But this imperfection makes her even more impossibly beautiful to him.

“Wow, well don’t sound so thrilled,” she teases.

Clint is somewhat reluctant to explain, but does anyway. He doesn’t know what it is about Natasha that makes him act so strangely, telling her things he’d never tell anyone. At least, not anyone he’s known for as little time as he’s known her. It’s not like he thinks she’ll understand – after all, what would a girl like Natasha know about feeling uncomfortable around other people? She’s never appeared particularly bothered by the attention she draws, though she doesn’t seem like a big sharer, either. He suspects that she gets more out of people than they get from her. Clint doesn’t think the same applies to him.

Natasha looks at him with unfathomable eyes, and Clint waits for her to tell him he’s being silly or immature. What she says is, “What if I go up there with you?”

“You?” he says in surprise. “You know how to play the guitar?”

“No,” she says. “I’ll just sit with you, and you can play for me. You can pretend no one else is there.”

It should sound conceited, but somehow it doesn’t. The thought of it actually makes some of his tension ease. “That’d probably work, but it might look a little weird,” he sighs. “Think I just have to suck it up.”

“You’ll do great.” She puts a hand on his arm, and Clint knows it can’t possibly be any warmer than the average human hand, but he swears it burns through him. “Now are you going to kiss me, or what?”

Natasha doesn’t give him time to put his guitar away. She just leans forward and kisses him. Her lips are moist, in a nice way, and taste like watermelon Lip Smackers. When they pull apart Clint licks his lips and they stare at each other for a moment. He lifts the guitar strap from around his neck and leans the instrument gently against the bench. Then they lean into one another again, her arms going around his neck. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands so he keeps them braced against the bench as they kiss. But she scoots closer and closer to him until she’s practically in his lap, they’re actually kissing with tongue now, and he’s finally decided to put his hands on her waist when a loud voice makes them jump apart.

“What the _fuck_?”

Clint is unceremoniously dragged to his feet, Tony’s fists twisted in his shirt. “You little shit—”

“Tony, stop it!” Natasha says, unsuccessfully trying to get him to let go of Clint. She hits at her brother, and while he grunts when she lands her blows, it doesn’t deter him.

“Do you know whose throat you had your tongue halfway down?” he demands.

Clint doesn’t think it’s a good idea for him to answer that question. He finally frees himself and gives Tony a shove. Natasha immediately springs between them.

“Go away, Tony,” she demands, glaring at him. “This isn’t any of your business.”

“Not any of my— It _is_ my business. You’re my sister. I’m not going to let you get knocked up by some guitar-playing dweeb. I mean, you could have at least gone for a drummer.”

Natasha lets out a sound of rage that makes Tony flinch. Even Clint is a bit worried.

“It’s okay, Tasha,” he says gently, the diminutive slipping out.

“You stay out of this,” Tony says, giving Clint a withering look.

“You don’t get to talk to him!” Natasha snaps.

Tony wags a finger at her. “Wait till Thor hears about this. He’s going to pound him into the ground like a geekstake.”

“He wouldn’t dare,” she rejoins angrily. “No one’s touching him.”

While appreciative of Natasha’s fierce defense, Clint kind of feels that he should be fighting his own battles. “Look, I’m sorry. I get it. She’s your sister—” _but you don’t own her_ is what he was going to say, but Tony’s fist stops him. It catches him on the left cheek, pain exploding there, making him stagger.

Now Clint’s pissed. He clenches his left hand and swings at Tony, and there’s a satisfying crack as his fist connects with the other boy's face. He follows Tony down, and the two of them trade blows as Natasha shouts at them to stop being idiots. As a foster kid Clint has been in his share of brawls and knows how to defend himself, how to land blows that hurt, that incapacitate. Certainly more than this rich boy, though Tony is holding his own pretty well. He isn’t as soft as Clint might’ve assumed from what he knows about the guy.

“Since you two are more interested in each other than in me, I’ll just leave you to it,” Natasha says, and starts stomping away. “Let me know if you decide to get married.”

Clint shoves at Tony, but by the time he stands up, she’s already gone.

“There’s four of us, you know,” Tony says, breathing hard and wiping the corner of his mouth as he stands. “I hope you brought diapers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Tony. Why do you have to be so Tony about everything?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is dedicated to [Al](http://al-thefreak.deviantart.com/), who drew this [wonderful fanart](http://al-thefreak.deviantart.com/#/d5juix0) for this story, of Clint and Natasha sitting together in the clearing. <3 It's so cute. Please give her All of the Praises, for this part is out earlier than I planned because of her awesomeness!

//\\\

It’s the last night of their KP duty rotation, and after their shift Clint and Phil sit down to have dinner. Their table isn’t too far from Natasha’s, and Clint tries to catch her eye a couple of times. She either isn’t paying attention or is still miffed, and is deliberately ignoring him.

It’s been two days since he and Tony fought, and she’d been giving them both the cold shoulder ever since. Clint thought she might be thawing a bit, as earlier that afternoon he’d passed by the martial arts room and deliberately looked in, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. She’d just completed a technically perfect reverse-crescent kick, earning the praise of her instructor, and turned to join the rest of her classmates at the back of the room while another student came up to take her place. She saw him, and he’d given her a hesitant smile, uncertain if he’d get snubbed again. But she met his eyes this time, and she seemed to offer a half smile. She could have easily just been smiling at one of her classmates, but Clint chose to believe it was for him.

“Hey, mind if I join you?” Bobbi stands by their table, holding a tray.

“Sure,” Clint says, while Phil gives him a knowing look that Clint ignores. Since Phil doesn’t look like he’s going to budge, and Bobbi is looking at Clint expectantly, he slides over on the bench so she can sit next to him.

“I’m so glad we don’t have KP anymore,” says Bobbi. “Though getting to spend time with you guys is nice.”

Phil and Bobbi are both looking at Clint expectantly. “Uh, yeah,” he says, not really sure what else to say.

“You guys should come and visit me some time,” Bobbi says. “It gets so lonely, there’s only three of us.”

Clint remembers then that Bobbi is taking a course in first aid. “You want us to break our legs or something, so we can hang out at the infirmary?” he jokes.

Bobbi makes a face. “You don’t have to be hurt to come by,” she says. “Anyway, it looks like you could have used my help. What happened?” She reaches out to touch the corner of Clint’s eye, which he knows is bruised.

He turns away, uncomfortable with Bobbi touching him when Natasha can easily look up and see them. Though Natasha might not actually care about seeing him with another girl, Clint did. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. When he glances up toward Natasha’s table, she’s talking to Pepper and doesn’t seem to know that Clint is even there.

After they finish eating, Phil excuses himself with another of his annoying _knowing_ looks, and Clint’s about to do the same – he wants to get back to the cabin before the others and possibly get in some more practice time – but Bobbi grabs his arm once they’re out the door and asks if he’ll walk her to her cabin. The girls’ cabins are clustered on the other side of the classrooms, which takes him out of the way enough that he probably won’t be able to practice tonight. Still, he isn’t enough of an asshole to refuse.

It’s a balmy night so they’re still comfortable in their daytime clothes. Clint keeps having to stop and wait for Bobbi to catch up, realizing that he’s walking much faster than she is. He makes himself shorten his stride so they can walk side by side, though part of him is impatient to get going.

At the point where the road forks, one path leading to the girls’ cabins, the other to the lake, Bobbi moves ahead to take the latter. “Let’s go out to the lake for a bit,” she says. “Get our feet wet.”

“Nah,” says Clint. “Let’s just get back.”

“Oh come on, Clint, just for a little while. Please?”

Clint sighs. It’s not Bobbi’s fault that he’s not in the greatest of moods due to the situation with Natasha. Bobbi’s been nothing but nice to Clint, and he’s sure Phil’s wrong about how Bobbi feels about him, so he follows her with only slight reluctance to the lake.

“God, it’s so beautiful,” Bobbi breathes, and Clint has to agree. The moon is huge, reflecting clearly off the calm waters of the lake and providing plenty of light in the darkness. “Come on.” Bobbi kicks off her flip flops and urges Clint to do the same.

They carry their shoes with them as they wade into shallow water, and Clint has to admit that the cool liquid feels nice on his tired feet. They’ve only gone about ten yards when Bobbi suddenly stops. She turns and there’s a look of determination on her face.

“Clint, I want to tell you—” she starts, and all Clint can think is, _Oh crap, Phil was right._ It was bizarre, none of the girls at any of his various schools have ever shown him one iota of interest, so the fact that not one, but two, girls seem to want a piece of him this summer is something he isn’t quite sure how to handle. 

Thinking he can forestall the confession, Clint says, “Are you going to do anything for the talent show?”

Bobbi frowns. “No. Clint, listen. I... I like you. I’ve liked you ever since we met,” she blurts all in a rush, as if to get it all out before she can change her mind.

“Bobbi—”

She seems to know what he’s going to say and doesn’t let him finish. Instead she steps forward quickly, gets on her tiptoes and puts her arms around him.

Clint doesn’t push her away immediately; he’s too shocked. The kiss isn’t offensive; is pleasant, even, and being a teenage boy part of him is tempted to let it go on. But on a deeper level it just doesn’t feel right, it doesn’t make him forget everything, which is what happens when he’s with Natasha, and knowing what it _can_ be like, he can’t settle for this. It would be unfair to Bobbi, unfair to Natasha, and unfair to himself. So he puts his hands on her shoulders, intending to gently push her off him. But Bobbi seems to know all his moves in advance, and she deflects the attempt by catching his hands in hers and quickly placing them on her chest so that his palms are pressing against her breasts. He can feel her nipples through the thin shirt she’s wearing.

More firmly, Clint breaks off the kiss and wrenches his hands from hers, only to realize that they are not alone. Natasha is staring at them from about a dozen feet away, a closed-off look on her face. Not far behind her is her brother Bruce. Clint’s heart is pounding in his chest. _No no no no no no no no no no_ his brain says, and out loud he says, “Tasha, this isn’t – you have to believe me – we weren’t—” _Except you were_ , his brain supplies unhelpfully. As he’s speaking she’s making her way over to him, and part of him hopes that she’s going to put her arms around him and say that it’s okay, she understands exactly what has happened.

But she’s moving too quickly, with too much purpose, and she lets fly a left hook that sends Clint crashing down into the water, his cheek blooming in pain, his knee scraping against sand. _Déjà vu_ , he thinks dazedly. Bobbi exclaims “Ohmygod!” and immediately bends down to see if he’s okay. Clint can hear her babbling in his ear but he doesn’t take in a word as he watches Natasha’s eyes get suspiciously bright before she turns and walks away quickly. Clint doesn’t see any point in going after her; she’s obviously not in any mood to listen to explanations, and he suspects that he will do more harm than good if he tries.

“Well,” says Bruce, with no little satisfaction, “I was gonna do that, but now I don’t have to.” He follows the same path his sister took.

“Are they _crazy_?” Bobbi exclaims. “You should go to the infirmary, we can get you some ice...”

“Bobbi,” Clint interrupts, feeling exhausted all of a sudden, “I’m fine. I don’t need to go to the infirmary. I’ll get some ice from the cafeteria.”

“Are you sure?” She keeps a hand on his arm as Clint gets up from the water.

“Yeah. Listen, I’ll see you later, okay?” Clint pulls away from her, and he’s relieved when she lets him go without bringing up the topic of her feelings again.

Changing out of his wet clothes, listening to his cabin mates talk about the various things that they experienced that day, Clint for the first time in his life wishes he had more experience with girls. Maybe then he wouldn’t have fucked things up so royally with Natasha, or been able to recognize what was going on with Bobbi earlier or known how to let her down without making things so messy.

After lights out, the inevitable discussion about girls begins, the same as every night, and Clint tries to tune the other guys out, his stomach writhing as if it’s full of snakes. He listens to them talk about this girl or that, even hears Natasha’s name at one point, and gets some good-natured ribbing about how he never participates in the discussion, which either means he must be gay or that girls just find him unattractive.

Clint ignores these jibes, telling himself that he’ll fix things with Natasha tomorrow, that it will all be better then.

//\\\

It’s not better.

If anything, it’s worse. When he happens to see Natasha, she alternately ignores him or gives him looks that shrivel his balls. He actually gets up the nerve to approach her once or twice, but her brothers close ranks around her and she lets them. Clint goes to his favorite spot in the clearing to practice his guitar, hoping she’ll come to him on her own terms, but she never shows.

Desperate, on the third day, he skips out of his guitar session a few minutes early so he can try and catch her during her martial arts class. There are five practice dummies arrayed around the room, and while the other students are practicing measured, deliberate hits, Natasha is beating the shit out of hers. In good form, it must be said, but she’s getting alarmed looks from some of the students though her instructor looks quite pleased.

“She’s pretending it’s your face,” someone says from behind Clint. It’s Tony, wearing an insufferable smirk. "You can actually see a resemblance." 

Clint wants to wipe that smirk off the other boy's face, but it would just give Natasha more reason to be mad at him, and anyway, he has to admit Tony’s probably right.

Natasha blows a wisp of hair out of her face, then gives the dummy one last vicious punch before walking away to drink some water.

Clint goes back to his cabin. It’s empty so he sits on his bed to practice _Anji_ , but he can’t concentrate and keeps messing up, even the parts that haven’t given him any trouble up until now.

Rather than continue to butcher the song when he’s so distracted, he puts his guitar away and lies on his bed. Through the open window he can hear other campers calling out to each other in happy tones as they make plans to go to the lake, meet by the snack bar, start up a game of soccer, or otherwise occupy themselves. Clint has no desire to join them.

Instead he looks at the sky through the window and thinks about all the brief moments he’s shared with Natasha until his eyelids feel heavy and blissful unconsciousness takes him away.


	4. Chapter 4

//\\\

“STOP IT HAROLD STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT—”

“Hey,” Clint says, the beginnings of a headache beginning to develop behind his eyes, “what did I say about screaming, Mary Beth?”

The five-year-old looks at him with huge blue eyes, as if she can’t believe Clint’s taking _Harold’s_ side. Predictably, her lip starts to tremble and her eyes are getting wet.

To forestall a complete meltdown, Clint hurries to say, “Now tell me calmly what happened, so I can help you.”

Mary Beth sniffs, but thankfully does not tantrum. “I was using the green crayon because I need it for grass, but Harold took it. I was using it and he took it...”

“Got it,” Clint says, then turns to the five-year-old sitting across from her. “Come on, dude, give her the green crayon. You can’t just take someone’s crayon while they’re using it. You know that’s not cool.”

“No,” Harold says petulantly, without looking up. He’s using the green crayon to essentially cover the entire sheet of his paper.

Clint plucks the crayon out of Harold’s beefy little hand, causing the boy to exclaim, “Hey!”

“Didn’t like that, did you,” Clint says, handing the crayon to Mary Beth. He stands over her shoulder, daring Harold to take it from her again.

Harold scowls, and tries to hide the fact that he’s intimidated by grabbing a nearby black crayon and using that instead.

“Don’t make me come back here,” Clint warns, “or I’ll move you to the end of the table.” If he’s right, Harold won’t risk it, given the crush he has on Mary Beth.

Clint makes his way down the table, looking over his temporary charges, who are mostly all diligently drawing and coloring. He looks at his watch. It’s hard to believe he’s only been doing this for fifteen minutes. He’s already had to break up three altercations, send two kids to the infirmary (one for a bloody nose, another for a shallow paper cut the kid wouldn’t stop whining about), and fix a little girl’s ponytail, which he’s never done before, so it looks rather lopsided. But she looks happy enough just to have her hair out of her face, so Clint counts it as an achievement. He’s decided that he’s never having kids. Ever.

On the other side of the arts and crafts tent, Natasha is coloring with some other kids, who are huddled around her to see what she’s drawing. Of course _she_ would get well-behaved children on her side of the room, while his seem to be demons in human form.

In forty-five minutes, his rotation will be over. Whoever’s supposed to relieve him better not be late. Damn the SHIELD camp counselors’ all-day session, anyway. If not for that, and Clint’s perennial bad luck, he wouldn’t have been one of the older campers selected to do a shift helping out with the younger kids. If he and Natasha were on speaking terms, he might feel differently, since she got assigned to the same tent at the same time, but since they aren’t, he considers it another one of the universe’s cruel jokes.

There is an unspoken agreement to divide the room in half by an invisible line, and Clint is in charge one half while Natasha is in charge of the other. She’s at least being civil to him, even if it’s the same sort of civility she might afford to a bug she squashed under her sneakers, but still. It’s better than being completely ignored. Clint tells himself he can – and will – be patient. He has extraordinary patience for someone his age; he’s been told that by more than one teacher/counselor/shrink. Or maybe not so much _told_ as having secretly read it in the files they kept on him.

Still, Clint knows he’s good at waiting, especially when it comes to something he wants. And Natasha definitely falls into that category.

He feels free to stare at her right now; she’s so absorbed in whatever picture she’s creating that he doesn’t have to fear her looking up. She’s so _pretty_. Her pert little nose, those full lips that he’s actually felt against his own, the large green eyes that have looked at him with scorn and desire both, and of course her hair, that hair in a shade of red so vibrant it’s as if she’d been kissed by an angel at birth. It’s no wonder she doesn’t want to be with him. He’s pretty much as far from an angel as anyone can get.

“Clint!”

He hears his name called and turns to squint at the figures approaching from the direction of the infirmary. The sun’s in his eyes so he pulls on his sunglasses and makes out Bobbi, a guy about Clint’s age that he’s seen around, and the two rugrats he’d sent to get first aid within the first five minutes of his shift. The last thing he wants is to have Natasha see him with Bobbi again, but he doesn’t know what he can do about it short of running away and hiding.

“Hi! Oh my gosh, you guys are so cute!” Bobbi says, ushering in her two charges, both of whom look none the worse for wear. A couple of the kids look up at her squeal, but otherwise pay her no mind.

“Hey,” Clint and the other guy give each other a nod.

“Oh, do you know each other? Clint, this is Richard. He’s taking first aid too.”

Even though Clint makes it clear that he’s not interested in talking – or at least, he thinks he does – that doesn’t stop Bobbi from talking to him. He grunts or provides one-word syllables in response to anything that remotely seems like an answer from him is necessary, but this doesn’t deter her; in fact, it seems more than enough for her to continue her dialogue. If Bobbi notices that she’s essentially talking to herself, she doesn’t let on.

Internally, Clint is feeling more and more agitated, especially when he sees out of the corner of his eye that this Richard guy has gotten bored of Bobbi’s prattle and has wandered off to the other side of the room, where he’s trying to engage Natasha in conversation. She’s smiling at him, actually _smiling_ , and Clint isn’t familiar with the sensation that rises up in his chest, something between wanting to be sick and wanting to pummel something. Preferably Richard’s face. That seems as though it would provide the most satisfaction.

He notices that one of the kids is giving him an interested look, and Clint realizes that he’s clenched his hands into fists. He forces himself to relax it and give the kid a distracted smile. The boy returns to his drawing, which Clint notices is a fairly good depiction of a plane. In fact, there are pieces of paper littered around the boy that shows a fair obsession with them. This gives Clint an idea.

“...it was the most horrid-looking bruise, all dark purple on the inside and ringed with this yellowy-green color on the outside, but he swore when I touched it that it didn’t hurt—”

“Bobbi,” Clint says, “shouldn’t you be heading back to the infirmary?”

“Oh,” she says, looking a bit crestfallen that this is practically the first complete sentence he’s spoken to her since she showed up. “Yeah... I guess so...”

Clint feels like a jerk, so he smiles to make up for it. “Don’t want you to get in trouble. You have an important job. What if someone’s hurt and needs help?”

“That’s true,” Bobbi says, her consternation dissipating and a smile returning to her face. “Thanks.” Then suddenly she has her arms around him in a hug, but he’s quick to turn his head to make sure her peck lands on his cheek instead of anywhere near his lips, and pulls away as quickly and firmly as he can without being rude about it.

As soon as she leaves, Clint squeezes in next to the kid drawing the planes and another kid whose artistic talent seems limited to ovals of various sizes and colors. He pulls a piece of paper toward him, writes _I’m sorry_ on it in blue marker, and starts folding.

“What are you doing?” one kid pipes up.

“You’ll see,” Clint mutters, and continues to fold.

“It’s a paper airplane, stupid,” says another kid, and Clint is too distracted to berate him. “But wow... I’ve never seen one like that before.”

Clint can’t remember how he learned how to make paper airplanes, but the method he knows creates a very aerodynamic version. He’s got the attention of several kids now, and when he asks a girl for the straw in her milk carton, she hands it over eagerly. All that’s required to finish the product is a bit of glue.

“Ready for takeoff,” he says, and the kids watch in excitement as he launches it in Natasha’s direction. Clint has always had good aim and it lands right in front of her, causing her to break off whatever she was saying to Richard, who Clint is annoyed to see has stuck around, not having followed Bobbi back to the infirmary.

Clint’s heart is beating a little fast and he doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until Natasha unfolds the plane to read his message and he lets it out. Part of him expected her to ignore his paper missile, or crumple it before tossing it to the ground. She doesn’t look at him, but it’s a start.

“It went so far!” the boy who likes planes says. “I want to make one too!”

“Me too! Me too!”

“Okay, we’ll all make planes,” Clint says. “But we’ll need more straws.”

He writes several more notes, including ones that say _I’m an idiot_ and _It wasn’t what you thought_ and _Talk to me_. He gives the ones with his messages to younger kids who either don’t seem to be able to read or don’t care what’s written on the paper. Then he teaches his rapt audience how to make his paper airplane, going slowly so that everyone can learn the proper folds. In this way Clint oppresses small children into helping him woo Natasha back, and doesn’t feel guilty about it, because his little paper airplane chain gang is having so much fun.

Soon paper airplanes are flying everywhere, though Clint makes sure that at least some of the notes get to Natasha. She reads every one, and the kids on her side of the room send them back, laughing as they do. Richard looks annoyed that he no longer has Natasha’s full attention, and when she finally looks up to meet Clint’s eyes across the room, Clint knows he’s been forgiven. Or at least is very close to it. Richard says something, but Natasha’s clearly not listening, and he leaves, resigned. Clint takes the opportunity to approach her. Slowly, because he could be wrong about the signals she’s sending, and he doesn’t want to ruin what progress he’s made, but when it’s obvious that he intends to talk to her and she stays right where she is, he know it’s okay.

Clint sits down at her table across from her. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi.” There’s a slight twist to her lips that could be a smile. “So... I got your messages.”

He swallows. “And?”

“And I’m sorry too.” She makes a face, not looking at him, as if the words are hard for her to say. “I probably overreacted.”

_You think?_ is the first thing that pops into his head, but he wisely keeps it to himself. “She—” 

“I know,” Natasha says, meeting his eyes again. “I just like you too much.”

The confession floors him. It’s the last thing he expected her to say. He would have settled for _I’ll let you talk to me_ or even the dreaded _Let’s be friends_. What he thinks is _YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS_. What he says is, “I like you, too.”

She laughs a little at that, and Clint smiles.

“Want to go with me to the end of camp dance?” He doesn’t know where that came from, but he’s not taking it back. It felt like the right time to ask, and he almost always goes with his gut instincts.

Natasha doesn’t say yes right away, which makes Clint nervous. He went too far. He blew it. But she doesn’t say no, either. “My brothers will beat the shit out of you.”

“I don’t care,” Clint says. “They’re being protective of you. I’m cool with that.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yeah. But... if I ever do anything to you that requires the shit to be beaten out of me, I’d rather you did it yourself.”

Natasha actually laughs at that. “Deal. And I’ll go to the dance with you. _If_ ,” she emphasizes.

“If?” Clint almost doesn’t care what follows that _if_.

“If you sneak out of your cabin tonight and meet me.”

His jaw drops. “Meet you where?” He doesn’t want to sound like a nervous Nellie, but they will be in such deep shit if they’re caught. Parents will be called, they’ll get kicked out of camp, the whole thing. At least, that’s what they’ve been told, anyway.

“The lake,” Natasha says. His dubious look must show on his face because she says lightly, “Scared?”

“Of course not!” Clint denies. “You better be there.”

She scoffs. “Don’t you worry about that.”

Before he loses his nerve, Clint leans over the table to give her a quick kiss. She returns it as paper planes fly over their heads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Clint and Natasha do puppy love so well. Thanks, as always, for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

//\\\

They don’t get caught.

The first night, it’s a close call, because the camp counselors sneak out after curfew also, and the lake seems to be just as popular a destination late at night as it is during the day. Clint nearly interrupts Natasha’s brother Steve necking with Maria, but Natasha intercepts him in time, pulling him behind a tree and pressing her palm over his mouth in a fluid execution before he even knows what’s happening.

After that, they’re much more careful. Clint waits to sneak out until his cabin mates are asleep – or as best as he can tell, anyway. So far no one seems to have ratted him out to anyone in authority, and Phil would confront him about it if he knew, so Clint figures his nighttime activities have gone undetected for now.

He usually meets Natasha in a copse just off the path to the lake – it’s hidden enough from casual observation, yet gets enough ambient light from the main campsite and the moonlight off the lake that it’s not completely pitch black there. If he arrives before she does, Clint climbs a tree and waits for her, then jumps down when she arrives. The first time he does this he scares Natasha so badly that she practically takes his head off with some kind of folding knife that she has on her, but he feints in time and the blade ends up in the tree instead. She gets used to his ways and doesn’t react that way again.

Where they end up changes every time. Depending on who has patrol duties that night, they might just stay in the thicket of trees, Clint leaning against a broad trunk and Natasha leaning against him. The first time they meet, Natasha is in the same clothes she wore during the day, even though it can get pretty chilly at night. Clint gives her his hoodie to wear while she rubs his arms to keep him warm. He lets her wear it back to her cabin, and hasn’t seen it since.

Sometimes Natasha feels more adventurous, and she’s surprisingly good at picking locks. She seems almost disappointed on the nights when they go to a classroom and find that the instructor has accidentally forgotten to lock it. Having familiarity with the kitchen due to KP duty, Clint has been able to sneak them cookies and milk from time to time. Natasha says she’d rather have coffee, but that’s trickier to get, and anyway he doesn’t see her refusing what he offers.

They tell each other their histories. Clint generally isn’t a fan of talking about himself, but it’s different with Natasha. He feels like he can tell her anything. She never looks like she feels sorry for him, or sad. Sometimes she looks angry, like when he tells her about Jacques beating him so badly he spends two weeks in the hospital, but that’s okay because it’s pretty hot that she looks like she would kill someone on his behalf.

Natasha explains that Tony and the others aren’t her biological brothers, which explains a lot because none of them look anything alike. She says that they are the only family she’s ever known, though, because her parents died when she was very young, and living in Russia at the time, and she barely remembers anything about her life until her foster father Nick took her in.

Somehow it makes perfect sense that they are both orphans.

“I wish I had brothers like you, though,” Clint says. “Maybe not _those_ brothers, but at least they care about you. I don’t know where my brother is, and we’re related by blood. I’ve always wanted to be in a really big family.”

“I’m glad you weren’t adopted by my family,” Natasha says, and Clint is kind of hurt until she continues, “Because that would make me your sister, and I don’t want you to see me that way.”

“I could never,” Clint splutters, and she laughs. He thinks, but doesn’t say, that this is impossible. He could never have brotherly feelings toward her. Even if she were his sister for real, he would probably still feel exactly as he does right now, and they’d be like those people in the news who get shunned by society and arrested because they’re siblings and are together anyway. “I like where I am now. Paul and Anna are okay. They had a son who died. They let me come here with Phil.”

“Phil? Phil Coulson?” Natasha says. “Isn’t he the guy who has a crush on that cellist? What’s her name?”

“You know about that?” Clint says, surprised. He didn’t think anything he or Phil did was worthy of being on anyone’s radar.

“Everyone knows about that,” she smirks.

Talking isn’t the only thing they do. There is also kissing. A lot of kissing. And other things. Clint can’t decide what he likes best so he decides that he likes everything equally.

He can’t believe some of the other things they do, partly because he’s never imagined that a girl would ever do those things to him, or let him do those things to her, and partly because he’s never imagined some of the things, period. It’s all leading somewhere that Clint desperately wants to go, but is also reluctant to, because he’s never done it before, and he doesn’t want to be terrible and disappoint Natasha.

There are four other unpredictable variables Clint should possibly be taking into account, but his sense of self preservation disappears around the same time that Natasha’s fumbling with the fastening of his jeans, and the thought of her brothers is the furthest thing from his mind.

Sometimes when she has her hands _there_ and draws him close so that she can rub against him it’s all he can do to remember his own name, much less why he’s trying to resist her. But Clint’s pretty sure Natasha just likes to tease him. She doesn’t strike him as the irresponsible type, and while she lets him be the one to protest (feebly) that they don’t have condoms, it must give her pause, too. They’ve so far managed to refrain from taking that final step, but when her teeth are digging insistently into his neck and he’s got his hands firmly under her shirt, a flimsy piece of latex doesn’t seem like a very good reason to stop.

That might be why Natasha seems determined that they’re going to do it, though, before camp is over. She keeps talking about getting condoms from somewhere, maybe one of her brothers, though Clint sincerely hopes they find another source. He is unbearably excited by the thought of having sex with her, even as the idea of being really bad at it, and the look on her face when she realizes it, makes him feel somewhat queasy.

//\\\

Clint and Natasha meet almost every night, and sometimes they don’t get back to their respective cabins until pink streaks brush the sky. He’s never felt so tired or so happy. Sometimes he finds himself falling asleep during his guitar lessons, and some afternoons he takes naps, waking from them more groggy than when he first falls into bed. Phil won’t stop bothering him about this bizarre behavior, getting so concerned that he suggests that maybe there’s something seriously wrong with Clint and he needs to see a doctor. Not wanting Phil to actually act on this worry by telling a counselor about it, Clint is forced to tell him about his middle-of-the-night assignations with Natasha. Phil is initially annoyed that Clint would keep such a thing from him, when they are supposed to be friends and have each other’s backs, but he quickly gets over it and covers for him when he has to, even while calling him a lucky son of a bitch.

The weeks pass by, Clint gets used to his new routine, and even makes significant progress on playing _Anji_. He’s not looking forward to the talent show, but now at least he’s not dreading it. He thinks he can get through it without making a complete ass of himself.

No, he dreads the end-of-camp talent show (and dance, which takes place afterward) for a whole other reason: as the name implies, it signals the end of camp, and therefore, the day he’ll have to say goodbye to Natasha.

They’ve talked about it; it’s not as though they’ve been ignoring the inevitable. But the thought of not being able to see her every day makes his chest feel weird and tight, and this unnamed panicky feeling comes over him. No matter how much she seems to like him, they come from different worlds, and once she’s back in her world, it seems probable – likely, even – that she’ll forget all about the boy she met at SHIELD camp. She says that she’ll write him, and gives him her phone number so he can call her whenever he wants, but Clint’s not comforted by these assurances. He’s said too many goodbyes to too many people, and the one thing he knows for sure is that life has a knack for getting in the way of promises.

There’s always next summer... except Clint can’t say with any certainty that he’ll be in a position to come back to SHIELD, not when he can’t even say that he’ll be living under the same roof in three months. Clint learned long ago not to make plans for the future. He’s always taken things day by day. But since getting to know Natasha, the future is suddenly something that is on his mind a lot, and he thinks he might finally understand what other people mean about having someone to go home to.

One day, distracted by thoughts of Natasha (which happens more often than he’d like to admit), Clint’s instincts for danger are not on high alert as he’s crossing the empty range where the archery class usually practices. However, it’s not a stray arrow from some amateur archer that finally makes him look around – although a dangerous projectile might be preferable to the realization that he’s surrounded by three of Natasha’s brothers.

“Hey,” Tony says, amiably enough, but Clint’s not fooled. Behind that easy smile is someone who can make your life hell if he wants to, and oh, he _wants_ to.

“Hey,” Clint responds warily, looking for an escape route. If he’s left with no choice, he’s pretty sure he can outrun them, but he refuses to give them that satisfaction. Besides, he _has_ been fooling around with their sister, so part of him resigns himself to the ‘justice’ he knows they feel he deserves.

Bruce growls – actually growls – and Tony holds up a hand to forestall him. “Funny story,” he continues in that same conversational tone. “I got up last night to take a leak, and I could have _sworn_ that I saw you and my sister sneaking out of the science classroom.”

Clint crosses his arms. Maybe he’s going to get the shit beaten out of him, but he’s not going to just lie down. “The bathrooms near your cabin are nowhere near the science classroom.”

Tony pauses, looking thoughtful. “What are you, a geography professor? The point is what I saw.”

“What you _think_ you saw,” Clint corrects.

Bruce growls again, and out of the corner of his eye Clint can see the other guy take a step closer to him, which makes Clint take an involuntary step back. For a dude who isn’t very big, Bruce somehow manages to project a lot of menace.

“You deny it?” Thor demands, and unlike Bruce, he actually is quite intimidating physically. One of his biceps is roughly the size of Clint’s thigh.

“No,” Clint says. “But there could be a good reason for us to be in the science classroom.”

“Oh really,” Tony laughs, looking like a cat playing with a mouse. “And pray tell, what would you and my sister be studying in the science room so intently in the middle of the night?”

“Biology,” Clint says.

For the briefest of seconds there’s actually a look of admiration on Tony’s face, but a fist – Bruce’s probably – connects with Clint’s cheek, and he goes down. And his previous bruises had been healing so nicely. The other guys fall down on top of him, and each other, and there are flailing limbs and grunts and cries of pain, not all of them Clint’s.

It takes a few seconds in the midst of the chaos to realize that there is a cry of real alarm. The forearm that’s been pressed against Clint’s throat – not entirely on purpose, he suspects – lifts away, and Clint chokes and splutters into the ground. “Holy shit!” he hears Tony say.

When breathing is no longer an issue, Clint sees why they’ve been distracted from him. Thor’s wrestling with a huge animal, its tusks inches away from his jugular. “What the hell is that?”

“Who cares? It’s trying to kill Thor!” Tony says. He has good reason to sound panicked, because it appears that Thor’s getting tired of holding the beast off. Bruce seems to realize this as well, and he charges at it, succeeding in drawing the horned thing’s attention away from Thor and onto himself. He has fresh muscles and adrenaline on his side, but he’s not going to last long, either. The thing seems enraged, hell bent on killing one or all of them if it can.

Tony drops to the ground next to Thor, who’s bleeding from the nose. He doesn’t have any other scratches on him, so the thing must’ve head butted him or something. “Go get help,” Tony says to Clint, then charges into the fray to try and help Bruce with the beast.

The archery range is too far, Clint knows. By the time he gets help – wasting who knows how much time trying to explain what’s going on – the thing will have killed or seriously injured these idiot brothers of Natasha’s. Clint grabs one of the spare recurve bows that the archery kids have left lying around, along with an arrow. It’s been a long time since he used one of these things, but at least he did get a few lessons from Buck – it was the only thing he ever got out of that particular foster father. Clint nocks the arrow and pulls on the bowstring, taking aim. His hands and his breath are steady.

Thor’s eyes widen as he takes this in. “Barton, what are you—” he starts, and Clint releases the arrow.

Tony, Bruce, and the beast all seem to collapse at once. Clint doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until Tony rolls over, groaning.

“Holy shit!” Tony exclaims when he sees the arrow protruding from the animal’s eye socket. He looks over at Clint, who’s still holding the bow. “Dude. I find you extremely attractive right now.”

“Get it off me,” comes Bruce’s slightly muffled voice, and Clint tosses the bow aside so they can all roll the thing off him. Bruce seems none of the worse for wear, though he has some serious grass stains on his shirt that are probably never coming out. His other injuries are just as likely to have come from the altercation they were having before the animal showed up.

“It’s a giant pig,” Thor muses, looking down at the corpse of their assailant. “Why did it attack us?”

Tony helps Bruce up. “It does seem strange,” Bruce says, in the mildest voice Clint has ever heard. He can’t help but gape at him.

“Secret government experiments,” Tony says immediately. “I bet if we take some blood samples and test them, we’ll find that this is a genetically engineered boar that’s been raised to do one thing and one thing only – rend human flesh.”

Thor and Bruce roll their eyes; Clint wants to but can’t, and he realizes for the first time that his left eye’s nearly swollen shut.

“You should probably go to the infirmary,” Bruce says, seeming to have come to the same realization. He shoots Clint an apologetic, almost _shy_ smile.

“Dude, are you bipolar?” Clint blurts, before he can think better of it.

The other guys only laugh, Thor even clapping him on the back, sending Clint stumbling. This isn’t exactly how he’d imagined winning over Natasha’s brothers, but he’ll take it.

//\\\

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed this part. :-) Just three more parts til this puppy's done. And happy early Thanksgiving to my fellow Americans!


	6. Chapter 6

//\\\

Bobbi has a minor freak out when they show up at the infirmary, but is especially attentive toward Clint. She doesn’t seem to notice Tony, Bruce, or Thor’s scowls, but Clint does. Twenty minutes ago they might’ve welcomed the sight of a girl other than their sister fawning over Clint; now they seem to be insulted on Natasha’s behalf.

Clint rebuffs Bobbi as best as he can – they haven’t really talked since the arts and crafts day with the kids, and Bobbi’s not stupid, she knows there isn’t anything in the cards for her and Clint – but that doesn’t stop her from being a genuinely nice person, and Clint doesn’t want any of the flak that should be going to him to be directed at her.

The actual nurse in charge gets on the phone to let security know about the wild boar or whatever it was, while Bobbi and Richard administer first aid on the guys. Tony’s handed an ice pack, given that he sustained the least amount of injury, but he bellows about being mortally wounded anyway. When everyone has been treated with antiseptic, bandages, and ice, they’re sent on their way.

Natasha’s waiting outside. “I heard something happened.” She glares at her brothers when she sees Clint’s face, and they sheepishly slink away.

“See ya later, Robin Hood,” Tony calls, friendly as anything.

Clint quickly explains what happened, and since she knows that everyone is okay, Natasha only nods. “Well... at least now that you’ve proven yourself, they’ll probably leave you alone.”

“Great,” Clint says. “I couldn’t have planned it better.”

She smiles. “So you’re really all right, then?”

“Never better,” he replies, though it comes out a bit of a mumble, given the cut on his lip.

“Good,” she says, slinging her arms loosely around his neck and placing a gentle kiss on his mouth. “Because while you were all distracted in there, I helped myself.”

“Helped yourself?” Clint echoes. “To what?”

Natasha smiles impishly, stuffing her hands into her pockets. She pulls out a handful of small foil-wrapped squares.

Clint covers her hands immediately, trying to get her to put them back in her pocket. He looks around, expecting an adult to pop out any second and accuse them of underage fornication. “Jesus! Will you put those away?” he hisses, feeling his face go red. But he can’t help the surge of excitement he feels at the sight of the condoms, and her act of taking them. She really meant to go through with it.

“You’re so cute, Barton,” she laughs, but to his relief, puts them out of sight.

“So there were some in the nurse’s station the whole time?” Clint asks.

“Guess so,” says Natasha. “They should tell us these things, don’t you think? If we’d known, we could have done this ages ago.”

Clint is responding to her words in a way that he doesn’t exactly care to, in public. “I should go,” he says reluctantly, circling her hips with his hands and giving her a kiss. “I was meeting Phil when all that happened. He’s probably wondering where the hell I am.”

“Okay,” Natasha says easily, giving Clint another kiss. “Tell him I said hi.” She gets on her tiptoes and says in his ear, “The night of the dance,” her voice laced with promise.

After she leaves, Clint wonders if there’s anywhere nearby he can get some privacy for five minutes. Certain needs are definitely going to have to be addressed, and quickly, before he can see other people.

//\\\

Anticipating and dreading the night of the talent show in equal measure causes it to arrive too quickly. The days and nights fly by, and soon it’s the afternoon before the show’s supposed to start. Clint has butterflies in his stomach at the idea of performing in front of a crowd of people, and from the thought of performing for Natasha, in private, later. He doesn’t particularly relish the idea of failing at either. The fact that they’re going to have to say goodbye the next day is something he’s trying not to think about.

“You’ll do great,” Phil reassures him while gathering up his toiletries.

“What do you care?” Clint says irritably. “All you care about is your cello girl.” She’s performing tonight also, a detail drilled into his brain by Phil, who hasn’t shut up about it.

“She’s a cell _ist_ ,” corrects Phil a bit haughtily. “And I _do_ care. You just won’t reward me as well.”

Clint rolls his eyes, but he can’t find fault with that argument. He fiddles with the string of his guitar, phantom playing the notes he knows in his sleep by now. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to shave,” says Phil. “I want to get ready for tonight.” He wags his eyebrows exaggeratedly.

“Shave _what_?” Clint retorts.

“Hey, fuck you, I have a beard,” Phil says. “Besides, I can’t hear that song one more time. Seriously man, I’d take a bullet for you, but—” He quickly ducks out of the cabin, narrowly escaping the sneaker Clint has chucked after him with some force.

Clint reluctantly starts to get ready as well, which for him means pulling on some clean clothes. He combs his hair a little more carefully than he usually does, borrowing a bit of Alan’s hair gel, but he doesn’t know what he’s doing and it just kind of... sticks up. Natasha is probably going to laugh herself silly.

The thought of Natasha, of the way she laughs, always with a hand covering her mouth, as if it’s too private a thing to share, brings a smile to his face. Then the thought of her naked, and under him, does other things to him. Then thoughts quickly follow of her pushing him off, telling him it wasn’t good, being relieved that this is the last time she’s going to see him in a long while, maybe ever, and Clint feels slightly sick. He actually has to put his head between his knees and take a few deep breaths, which he either learned in a health class, or from a paramedic one of the times they came to answer a call at the Kirkpatricks’. He’d only been in that house for two months.

It doesn’t make him feel any better, so he lies down, which does help a bit. He has to be careful not to fall asleep, though, not because he’s afraid of missing the talent show (though he doesn’t want to miss it; if he doesn’t perform, he won’t get into the dance, and he’s promised Natasha), but because the last thing Clint wants is for Natasha to think he’s so ambivalent about meeting her that he’d actually sleep through their rendezvous. 

He falls asleep.

Luckily Phil is there to wake him and shove his guitar into his hands. “What the hell have you done to your hair?”

As he and Phil sprint out the door, Clint only has time to glance at his reflection in the window, and he sees that it’s sticking up worse than before, right down the middle. He flattens it as best he can as Phil leaves him in the rehearsal area, as he gets ushered to the backstage area of the room where the drama kids have their lessons, as he waits to go on stage.

Then it’s his turn, and there’s no more time to focus on his hair, because there’s a stool for him to sit on, and a mic that he has to adjust to the right height, and sweaty palms to wipe on his pants, and chords he has to remember. The stage lights are really fucking hot, but they’re also bright, and for that he’s grateful. He can’t make out a single face in the crowd, and while he was hoping to be able to stare at Natasha the whole time, pretending like he’s just playing for her in the clearing, it’s better than being able to see all the individual faces. It’s almost like he’s in a room by himself, except for the occasional cough or low giggle. Someone starts to say something snarky, but someone else shushes them, and yet another person says, “Shut the fuck up,” and Clint’s surprised to recognize Tony’s voice.

To his surprise, this makes Clint feel calmer. Tony’s here. Of course. Everyone is here. And that includes Natasha. He strums the opening chords of _Anji,_ and all those hours of practice have paid off. His fingers fly over the strings with almost no conscious thought on his part. It’s all muscle memory. A time or two he stumbles ever so slightly on the trickier parts, but still. It’s the best he’s ever played this piece and suddenly it’s over, there’s applause (and not the ironic kind), even a couple of piercing whistles (Thor, he thinks), and then the hot stage lights aren’t on him anymore and it’s taking awhile to adjust to the darkness.

The second he pulls the guitar strap over his head, someone is hugging him tight, and he recognizes her scent immediately. Slowly his eyes adjust and Clint can make out her features, her big smile. “You were awesome,” Natasha enthuses. “It was the best you’ve ever played.”

“Thanks,” Clint says, and can’t help puffing out his chest a little. “Can’t wait to see your demo.” She’s supposed to spar with another teammate on stage.

“Oh, I’m not doing it,” she says without inflection.

“What? Why not?”

“In our last class I sort of accidentally took out Craig’s knee. He’s okay,” she asserts, sounding a bit disgusted, as though Craig were simply acting like a baby, “but he couldn’t spar tonight so they decided to replace us both.” Natasha hugs him again, then takes the opportunity to whisper in his ear, “I’d rather spar with you, anyway.”

Clint opens his mouth, hopefully to say something witty back, but all that comes out is a croaky, “Uh...”

“I like the hair,” Natasha says, grinning. “You’re like an adorable hedgehog.”

//\\\

After the talent show is over, everyone goes back to their cabins to get ready for the dance, which begins in an hour. The girls wail about how this is not possibly enough time to prepare, while the boys wonder what they’re going to do for the next fifty-five minutes. Clint and Phil spend it playing cards with their cabin mates. Phil is excellent at poker; no one can tell when he’s bluffing.

Clint loses seven hands in a row, and he’s glad that they’re not playing for real money, because he has exactly $7.65 to his name. He’s also a little too keyed up to give the game his full attention; his thoughts keep turning to what he and Natasha are planning to do later that night. He drums his fingers on his jean-clad knees restlessly.

“Time to go,” Clint announces, the second the clock hits the hour.

“Jesus Barton, what’s the rush? I’ve got Coulson on the ropes here,” Brad says.

“You’re not playing for anything,” Clint points out.

“It’s for honor, man, _honor_ ,” Brad retorts. “Besides, probably no one’s even there yet.”

He’s likely right about that, and Clint has no desire to draw more attention to himself than he already has, so he cools his heels. He’s forced to wait another twenty minutes while the showdown between Phil and Brad continues, and he swears Phil is smirking at him. As expected, Phil is declared the ultimate victor, and everyone starts pulling on their shoes. The other guys opt not to wear jackets, since it’s bound to be hot in the dining hall, which is where the dance is being held, and anyway only wussies get cold. Clint is the only one of them to bring a jacket, but that’s because he’s not planning to spend much time at the dance.

It doesn’t take Clint long to spot Natasha, even in the dark, swallowed by the crowd. She’s in the middle of the dance floor, her red hair haloed by the ambient light. She hasn’t noticed him yet; she’s moving sinuously to the beat of the music, eyes half closed, lips ever so slightly curled up in a smile. Clint’s stomach tightens involuntarily. He wants to know who she’s dancing with, who’s putting that look on her face. Bodies move, parting enough for Clint to finally see that Natasha is dancing with her brother Steve, who has a big, toothy smile on his face. Or rather, they’re dancing near each other, but Darcy and Jane are there too, and it seems that they’re just all dancing together. Clint relaxes, feeling slightly silly, before he takes in what she’s wearing – a black dress that’s modest in terms of how much skin it displays, but decidedly less modest in how it molds itself like a second skin to her curves. He swallows.

“Drink?” Phil asks loudly into his ear over the pulsing music.

“God, yes,” says Clint.

They make their way over to the refreshment table, which has a pathetic assortment of cookies, pretzels, chips, and a large bowl of bright red punch. The fact that it can be easily discerned as red in the darkness of the room is indicative of its neon-like qualities. And just his luck, Tony and Bruce are there, looking shifty. Well, shiftier.

“Sup,” Tony greets, while Bruce nods at them.

“Hi,” Clint responds. They’ve had an unspoken truce ever since the incident at the archery range, but he’s still not entirely comfortable around Natasha’s brothers. He can’t help but feel that their newfound tolerance of him is their way of getting him to let his guard down.

Phil reaches for a couple of plastic cups, but Tony stops him. “If you wait sixty seconds, this punch is about to get a whole lot more interesting. You two stand in front of us.”

Tony clearly wants to block the view of the punch bowl from Steve, who is still dancing with Natasha. Clint thinks helping Tony is a bad idea – no matter what the idea is – but he really doesn’t want to get into it with him tonight of all nights, so he and Phil serve as a blockade while Tony and Bruce do what teenage boys have done to punch bowls since the dawn of awkward coed dances.

“All clear. Thank you, gentlemen,” Tony says, handing Clint and Phil each a cup of spiked punch.

Clint waits to see that Tony drinks it before he too downs the liquid.

“Another?”

Clint holds out his glass. The punch is diluted with vodka, but it’s not very strong. “Fill ‘er up.”

“That’s what I like to see. I hope you’re not driving tonight, young man.”

Clint doesn’t even bother to roll his eyes as he drinks the second cup.

“She’s here,” Phil says suddenly, his voice sounding a bit high pitched.

“Who, the cellist?” says Tony, proving Natasha correct, but luckily Phil doesn’t seem to hear him.

There’s really no mistaking who he means. Phil’s been mooning over this cellist since the start of camp and still hasn’t done anything about it. At this point Clint isn’t sure whether Phil likes the girl, or just likes liking her.

“I’m going for it. I’m definitely going for it.” Despite his words, Phil stays exactly where he is.

“My friend Phil needs some more punch,” Clint says to Tony, handing him Phil’s empty cup.

“What am I, your manservant?” Tony says, but fills it up nonetheless.

Clint places the cup back into Phil’s fingers, still curled around a cup they weren’t holding. Phil hasn’t moved a muscle in the last forty seconds, still staring, unblinking, at someone on the dance floor or on the other side of the room; it’s a little hard to tell. “Drink that,” Clint advises.

Phil does as he’s told, and when he reaches the bottom he tosses the empty cup over his shoulder confidently, eyes still zeroed in on his target. Tony, Bruce and Clint all watch as the cup misses the garbage can entirely and lands on the floor.

“Nothing but net,” Clint says, and shoves Phil forward. “It’s your last chance, don’t fuck it up.” He watches Phil go up to a plumpish blonde girl who has a really nice smile, and whatever Phil’s saying must be working, because she seems to willingly stay and converse with him. Clint reflects that it’s really too bad she lives in Oregon; that’s pretty far from Iowa. Not unlike New York. He frowns as the thought that he always pushes away starts edging toward the forefront again.

He’s so busy watching Phil and trying to rein in his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice Natasha’s standing next to him until she takes his hand, pulling him toward the throng of dancers. “Dance with me,” she orders with a smile.

“Uh, what?” Clint says, slightly panicked. “No, I don’t dance.” He looks behind him to see if Tony and Bruce will save him. Surely they’ll scowl and do their big brothers thing and prevent him from dancing with Natasha. But they seem to have disappeared. It really figures.

Natasha laughs as if he’s made a funny joke. “There’s nothing to it,” she says. “It’s not like when dancing had actual _moves_ people had to know. Just wiggle your body.”

Before Clint can protest further that that is _exactly_ what he does not do, she’s yanked him forward – Jesus, she’s strong – and he stumbles into her, stepping on her foot in the process. He can feel the flush start to creep up his neck and go into his cheeks.

“Relax,” Natasha says into his ear, which doesn’t exactly help. The vibration from her voice and her breath makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He’s pretty much the opposite of relaxed. She puts her hands on his hips and tries to get him to move. “You’re like a statue,” she giggles.

With some additional coaxing, Clint allows himself to start moving, but only a little, and only because she’s guiding him. He’s had so many other things on his mind that it never occurred to him that she’d actually want to _dance_ at the dance. Or at least, dance with _him_.

After a couple of songs, he’s actually starting to feel a little more comfortable with the whole thing, but then the music changes and so do the lights, and suddenly everyone seems to know to melt into pairs and start swaying against each other. Everyone but Clint, who drops his arms to his sides and considers a quick escape. But Natasha’s anticipated this; she grabs his hands and pulls them behind her, locking them around her waist, and her own arms go around his neck.

“Just sway,” she says, and rests her head against his shoulder.

It’s actually kind of ... nice. Clint glances around, but no one’s looking at him funny, so clearly he can’t be doing anything terribly wrong. He smiles to see that Phil and his cellist are dancing together, their arms in the exact same position as Clint and Natasha’s. Clint gives Phil a brief thumbs up behind Natasha’s back, and Phil just grins contentedly.

While it’s nice holding Natasha against him, Clint’s glad when the fast music starts up again. He feels that he can blend in better when there’s chaos. He’s even thinking that it won’t be so bad to do this for another hour, but Natasha has other ideas.

“Let’s get out of here,” she says, giving him a meaningful look that goes right to his alternate brain.

“What, _now_?” Clint says, feeling the need to protest. It’s his self-preservation instincts kicking in. He looks around for her brothers.

“Yes, now,” Natasha says. “They’ve had just the right amount of punch by now, and are otherwise occupied.”

Clint finally spots them. Tony, Pepper, and Bruce are all dancing together – though it mostly looks like Tony is gesticulating wildly while the other two look on and laugh – while Thor and Jane are still in slow dancing positions, apparently not having noticed the change of the music. Steve is over by the punch bowl, sniffing it suspiciously. Natasha’s right; if they want to sneak out unobtrusively, now is the time.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting this part. I had a really long and lovely vacation, though! OK, so remember when I said that this story was likely going to have 8 parts? I lied, it's going to be 9. My beta reader insisted that I had to extend the ending to make it better, and she's right. Soooo there will be 2 more parts after this. Hope you enjoy this one!

//\\\

They stop to grab Natasha’s jacket, then head out along with a few others who want to get some cold, fresh air after the heat and din of the dining hall. But instead of stopping right outside as the others do, they continue on. Natasha seems to know where she’s going, so Clint follows her lead.

To his surprise, she takes them to the camp counselors’ cabin, the one they use as a break room during the day.

“Won’t—” he starts.

“They’re all chaperoning at the dance,” she replies. “Come on. It’s perfect, it’s heated in here.”

She’s right, the room is heated – and empty. A couple of squashy-looking couches, a pool table, a small kitchenette, and an old television set that’s seen better days are all that make up the room. Clint doesn’t see how they’re going to be able pull this off; Natasha can’t guarantee that one of the counselors won’t come here at some point.

“Help me with this,” she says, and points to a chain that dangles from the ceiling. Clint grasps it and pulls, revealing a short ladder that leads up to an attic. Without needing further direction, he helps Natasha up, then follows behind her, pulling the stair closed once they’re both up and Natasha has turned on a small lamp in the corner. The attic is filled with junk – mostly arts and crafts materials, Clint realizes. They probably store it all here and only ever come up when they need this stuff, which now won’t be until next summer.

“How’d you know this was here?” he asks.

“You mean, have I ever brought other boys up here?” Natasha grins.

That wasn’t what he meant, but come to think of it, that is a good question. Clint just doesn’t know if he wants to know the answer.

“No,” Natasha says, moving some things around so that there’s room to lay down a blanket. “I helped clean up when we did arts and crafts with the kids that one day, found out about it then. Came by the other night and stored some things I thought we’d need.”

Her penchant for thinking ahead is arousing. Actually, everything about her is arousing. Suddenly Clint realizes that he can kiss her if he feels like it, that she actually _wants_ him to, that for some reason Natasha finds him attractive. So he does. He takes the few steps that separate them, pulls her into his arms, and plants one on her. It’s kind of messy and not all neat like in the movies, when all the body parts seem to align perfectly, but he puts all his feelings behind it, and she seems to like it.

When Natasha pulls back, her lips look swollen, her eyes are bright, and she’s breathing more heavily than usual, which does interesting things to her chest. “You taste like punch,” she muses.

“Yeah, I had some,” Clint admits, and his breathing’s not normal either.

“Are you too drunk for this?” she asks, her eyes crinkled with amusement.

“Nah. What I had tonight was nothing. Hank – one of my foster dads – used to make me drink with him,” Clint explains. “Said it’d put hair on my chest. Laughed the first time when I puked my guts out. But by the end I could say the alphabet backwards even when he’d pass out.”

“Did you know being able to do that is what gives it away to a cop that you’re drunk?” Natasha says, settling down on the blanket and pulling him down to her. “Sober people can’t even do it, so if you can it means you’ve memorized it for when you’re drunk.”

Clint considers this. “Is that true? About the cop?”

“I dunno. I heard it somewhere. Why, you always drive drunk?” she teases.

“I don’t drive at all,” Clint says. “Never really stayed in one play long enough to learn.” And no one wants a new foster kid near their car. It’s always public transportation for him, or if he’s lucky, a bicycle. More often than not it’s his own two legs. And amazingly, Natasha seems not to be bothered by this, by any of the things she’s learned about him.

“What?” she asks softly, interpreting his change of mood accurately.

“Nothing.”

“You look like you want to ask me something.” Her fingers move gently over his, so that they’re playing with each other’s hands without actually clasping.

“It’s just... Why me?” Clint is surprised to hear himself ask the question. It’s been there, at the periphery since they met, but he vowed that he’d never say it out loud, even to himself, because to do so would be to acknowledge it, and acknowledge the possibility that she might say something like, “Because you were there.” Or worse, “Because I feel sorry for you.”

“You’re cute,” Natasha answers with a little smile.

It would be so easy to let it go at that, to put the question back in the box, but it’s out now and he has to know. “No, seriously,” he says.

Natasha’s eyebrows rise. “What, I can’t find you cute?”

“I’m not _cute_ ,” Clint says, a bit indignantly. “Baby penguins are cute.”

“You’re cute, too. Just in a different way,” she says. “But that’s not the only reason.”

“Then what?”

“Because,” she says softly, eyes wide and unblinking. “Because we’re the same.”

Clint repeats her words in his head, and they sound right. Of course Natasha would understand this, that she would be the one to recognize it and be the one to tell him the obvious. He kisses her, and the taste of her, the feel of her is as familiar to him as his own heartbeat and how could he have not seen it before? Of course they are the same, they always have been and always will be, even when he’s not Clint and she’s not Natasha and they’ve left all this behind.

They’ve done this now enough times, the physical part at least, that they’re able to keep kissing even as they undress each other, with only a pause here and there to allow for Clint’s shirt to be tugged over his head, or for Natasha to shimmy out of her dress. And then there are no barriers at all, and this part is entirely new. During previous interactions, when one of them was naked, the other was at least partially clothed; it was their way of resisting temptation. Now they don’t have to.

“Clint,” Natasha says, putting a hand on his shoulder. Not pushing him away, but holding him in place. “You should probably know... I haven’t, you know, actually done this before.”

“What?” Clint can only stare at her.

“Why is that so hard to believe? Should I be insulted?”

She looks amused more than angry, but Clint still feels the need to backpedal. “No! No, it’s just... you seemed so _sure_ and not nervous at all...” _Unlike me_ , he doesn’t say.

“Why would I be nervous? I know I want to do this with you,” Natasha says matter-of-factly. Clint’s starting to realize that she doesn’t have doubts the way normal people have them. When she wants something, she acts on it. Things are black and white for her.

“Well, I want to do this with you, too,” Clint reassures her so quickly that she laughs. “I just thought maybe... you’d tell me what to do. What you like.”

Natasha’s gives him a considering look beneath lowered eyelashes. “I can do that,” she says finally. “And you tell me what you like.”

Clint can’t imagine her doing anything to him that he won’t like, and he tells her as much. “What about you?”

“I don’t mind if you touch me,” she says softly, and takes one of his hands, cupping it around one of her breasts. Clint loves the weight of it in his hand. Her skin is so soft, and the feel of her nipple pebbling against his palm is amazing. He puts both hands on her.

Slowly, by turns, they explore each other, using their hands at first, but eventually their lips get involved, and tongues, and even noses. Clint wants to drown in her, wants to stop time for everyone but them, because otherwise there won’t be enough time in the world to learn all of her by taste and touch and smell, and that’s what he wants. He wants to know her as well as he knows himself. Better, in fact. Any time he does something that she seems to like, he does it again. It’s blowing his mind a little that she’s letting him.

Then the time comes when Natasha wants to take it further. She fetches one of the condoms from her discarded jacket, handing it to Clint, who takes it with slightly trembling fingers. She knows he doesn’t want her to help him, not this first time when he’s right on the brink, so she just watches patiently as he puts it on, and thank god it’s as easy as the dude with the banana in health class had said.

The act itself is somewhat awkward, and for Natasha, clearly painful. She doesn’t say it but Clint can tell from the grimace on her face that he’s hurting her. He tries to pull away but she won’t let him; she clasps him tight and god her thighs are freakishly strong. “It’s okay,” she says breathlessly. “It’s supposed to hurt. Keep going. Please.” It’s the _please_ that does it.

It doesn’t last too long, which they’re both grateful for. It’s the greatest thing Clint’s ever experienced, and his euphoria is only tempered by the fact that Natasha so obviously doesn’t feel the same. She reassures him that this is how it is for girls their first time, and that the times that follow will be much better. She seems so certain, he trusts that she knows what she’s talking about, and just hearing the words _next time_ has him pretty much ready for action again. One day he’s going to miss this part of being a teenage boy, but right now he doesn’t see anything unusual about it. It’s only to be expected when he’s skin to skin with a gorgeous, sexy girl whose virginity he’s just taken, and who’s taken his.

Afterward, when they're both red in the face and breathing hard, when Clint feels that this is the best thing that will ever happen to him, that it's all going to be downhill from here, Natasha reaches over for his t-shirt and pulls it over her head. "You don't mind, do you?" she asks, and Clint shakes his head no, because he can't actually speak at the moment. It's a small request, but he can't imagine refusing her anything, not when she's given him _this_. 

When she was reaching for the shirt Clint saw something he's never noticed before; not that he would have cause to, as it's on her derriere, her right cheek to be exact, and he's so taken with it that he reaches out to run his finger over the spot. 

Natasha smiles knowingly, raising herself up a bit more so he can see the tattoo more clearly. It's small, as far as tattoos go, and an interesting choice, but somehow completely fitting for Natasha. 

"You have a spider on your butt," says Clint. The blood is only gradually going back to his brain. 

"It's a _latrodectus_ ," she says, looking over her shoulder at him. "A black widow." 

Clint notices then that there's a red hourglass in the body of the spider. He traces it. "It's really cool."   
Natasha lies back, the tattoo disappearing from view and trapping Clint's hand under her. They wiggle a bit, until she's resting her neck on Clint's arm, his hand curled into a slight fist on her shoulder. He feels drowsy. "Yeah," she says. "The hourglass marking is supposed to be on the abdomen, but...” She shrugs.

"When'd you get it?" he asks, closing his eyes. 

"After my parents died," Natasha answers. She doesn't volunteer more information, but snuggles closer to him, so Clint knows she'll tell him more in time. 

"Why do they call it a black _widow_ , anyway?" Clint yawns. "Are they more likely to kill guys?"

Natasha giggles, then lets out a huff of air. "Not like you're thinking. They're female spiders that eat the male spiders they have sex with." 

This makes Clint's eyes open. "Seriously?" He playfully starts to edge away from her. "That's been your plan all along?" 

Natasha doesn't let him get far, using her arms and legs to pin him down. She bares her teeth and sinks them gently into his shoulder. "Now I have you in my web. There's no escape." 

Clint makes only a perfunctory effort to prove her wrong, all too satisfied with being caught. Her words, however, only serve to remind him that they're going to be saying goodbye in just a few hours' time. He can't imagine it. The idea of not seeing her every day, possibly ever again, is a physical pain. Clint has said too many goodbyes to hold out any real hope that this is one goodbye that won't last. She's tried to reassure him, and he finds it easier to nod and agree than share his pessimistic predictions.

Natasha's happy to believe it's true, so why should he take that away from her?


	8. Chapter 8

//\\\

On the last day of camp Clint wakes an hour before the rest of his cabin, despite having gotten in later. Only Phil had still been awake when Clint had finally gotten back, to reassure him that none of the counselors had done a check in.

Clint had still been basking in the euphoria of everything he and Natasha had done, so he was happy to listen to Phil go on and on about how fantastic the dance had been and how he thought he might’ve gotten to second base by accident with the cellist. When he took a long enough breath to ask Clint how his night had gone, Clint was noncommittal. He was bursting to tell someone, to share his happiness, and he knew he could trust Phil, but somehow it just felt too private.

If it’d been up to Clint, he and Natasha would have remained in that attic for the rest of known time.

Last night it had seemed as though time stretched, that if only they stayed together, it could somehow go on forever in the exact same moment. It was an illusion that couldn’t last. Now Clint can see the streaks of color that are just starting to appear in the early-morning gray, and in a few hours he’ll be saying goodbye to Natasha, and he’s not stupid, he knows how this works; they’ll say they’ll keep in touch, that it’s not really goodbye. He’s been through it once or twice before, with a foster sibling, or a rare friend from one of the schools he’s attended. A lasting relationship never happens. It’s hard to stay in touch when lives move in different directions, and when Clint literally moves from place to place. He’s not a great letter writer, never has been. He’ll try for Natasha, of course he will, but soon school will start and she’ll be with her friends and meeting new people, and Clint will fade in her memory, and if he’s lucky she’ll remember him as the boy she hooked up with at summer camp that one time.

When everyone is up and about except him, Clint can’t avoid the inevitable any longer. He dresses and packs his meager few belongings, leaving his suitcase on the bed as they all troop to the dining hall for one last meal.

Natasha’s waiting for him outside. Clint’s heart speeds up. She looks, in the early morning light, more beautiful than he’s ever seen her, even though she has to be as tired as he is. His cabin mates all give Clint sidelong glances, though mercifully don’t say anything.

“Hey,” Clint greets with a smile, and they both automatically fall back behind the others.

“Hi,” Natasha says, and takes hold of his hand with hers.

Clint shoots her a surprised look. They have been extremely discreet in public about their relationship, but apparently that’s over now.

“Just let Tony say something,” she says. “I dare him to.”

Clint’s almost looking forward to the altercation, but Thor and Steve are the only ones who are in the dining hall, which has transformed into its usual appearance once more. It doesn’t take a genius to surmise the reason behind Tony and Bruce’s absence.

“Hangover,” Natasha says succinctly. “Serves them right.” Then a slightly evil glint gets into her eyes. “Hey, do you think we can get into the band room? Maybe borrow a snare drum?”

“I’m pretty sure all that equipment’s being loaded onto a truck as we speak,” Clint laughs.

“Too bad,” Natasha sighs.

They go through the serving line, getting their trays loaded with scrambled eggs, sausage, and pancakes. Clint’s glad he didn’t get pulled for KP duty on the last day of camp – the sleepy campers serving this morning look dead on their feet. Clint and Natasha find a two-person table away from everyone else, even though it’s quiet this morning. There’s hardly anyone there. The clink of silverware on plates is the loudest sound in the room.

Natasha watches as Clint slathers butter onto his pancakes, then pours over an obscene amount of syrup. He’s just taken a huge bite when she says, “You’re going to call me, right?”

“Yeah,” Clint says with his mouth full. He’s glad to have that as an excuse for why he doesn’t say anything else.

“I’ll visit you,” Natasha says. “It’s probably easier for me to come to you than it is for you to come to New York, huh?”

“Probably,” Clint acknowledges. He doesn’t have the money to get to New York, and probably won’t for a long time, though he doesn’t want to tell her that.

“Do you want me to?” she probes, and the intensity of her stare is such that Clint can’t meet her eyes.

“Of course I do.”

“Why can’t you look at me, then?”

Clint puts his fork down and rubs the back of his neck. “I do want to see you again,” he says honestly, meeting her gaze. “I just... I just don’t want to get my hopes up.”

For a second Natasha’s eyes flare like they do when she’s mad, but then they soften. “I know you might not know this about me yet, but I keep my promises,” she says. “You’ll see me before Christmas.”

Clint nods and swallows, his throat feeling tight. To defuse the intensity of the moment, he points at her last pancake. “Are you going to eat that?”

“Touch it and die, Barton.”

//\\\

Natasha’s foster father is a tall black man. With a freaking eye patch. He is easily the scariest man Clint’s ever met, and he was already preparing to be intimidated. Now he realizes he would have been lucky to meet the vague apparition he’d been fearing, the one who bore a striking resemblance to Dirty Harry crossed with Al Capone crossed with Vin Diesel, rather than the real Nick Fury.

Clint swallows his apprehension and approaches Natasha’s foster father. He barely notices that Natasha has glued herself to his side, and only realizes when he tries to raise his hand to offer to the older man that he can’t because she’s got hold of his arm. So he just keeps them both at his sides.

“Hello, sir,” Clint says, and is glad that his voice doesn’t waver. He’s had enough experience meeting authority figures that he’s gotten pretty good at hiding his nervousness.

“Hello,” Nick Fury says. He doesn’t sound incredibly eager to make Clint’s acquaintance – he keeps looking at Natasha’s hands holding on to his arm – but he hasn’t killed him yet, either. “And who exactly are you?”

“This is Clint, Nick,” Natasha jumps in. “A friend I met at camp.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Fury,” says Clint.

The older man grunts. “And how do you know Natasha? Were you in her martial arts class?”

“Uh, no, sir,” says Clint.

“He was taking guitar lessons,” says Natasha. “He’s really good, you should hear him play—”

“Can the boy not speak?” Nick Fury demands.

Natasha purses her lips in annoyance, but stops talking.

Clint fills the awkward silence with, “Uh... yeah, like Natasha said, I play the guitar, I’m all right at it I guess—”

“ _Killer_! There he is, guys!” And suddenly he’s surrounded by Natasha’s brothers. Well, all except Steve, who, being a counselor, has to stay behind one more day and will drive back on his own. Clint wishes Steve were there, though. He might be able to prevent whatever’s going to happen next. In front of their foster father. This _can’t_ be good.

Nick Fury has raised his eyebrow. “Killer?” he says silkily.

Clint’s gulp can probably be heard two counties over.

“Yeah Nick, you should’ve seen it. He totally saved us from, like, a demented boar,” says Tony. “It charged at us from out of nowhere, and this dude just picked up a bow and arrow and shot the thing. Right in the _eyeball_.” He pokes himself in the eye.

“Really.” Nick Fury is looking at him now as though he might potentially reconsider his first impression that Clint is a particularly nasty rodent he found lurking in his pantry. “You ever use a bow before, son?”

“A couple of times,” Clint says. “But really, it was no big deal, just a lucky shot—”

“Oh, don’t be so modest,” Tony says, slinging an arm around Clint as though they’re best buddies. “It was beautiful. Coolest thing I’ve ever seen. Right, guys?”

Thor and Bruce chime in their agreement, and now Clint’s waiting for the punchline. These guys have _hated_ him for the better part of camp, and now they’re singing his praises to a man who could destroy his relationship with Natasha more effectively than any one of them could?

Natasha shoves Tony’s arm off Clint, and Clint can tell that she’s as suspicious as he is. “Stop it,” she says. “He’s _my_ boyfriend, get your own.”

Clint gapes at her. Natasha blushes. He quickly looks at Nick Fury again, and now the older man’s wearing the same scowl from before. Clint’s heart sinks.

“Get in the car,” Nick Fury says, bending down to pick up Natasha’s suitcase. He’s clearly not moving until she does, so she gives Clint’s arm a squeeze, then reaches up to kiss him on the cheek.

“Bye,” she whispers in his ear.

Clint waves weakly as she gets into the front seat of the beige van that’s parked in front of them. He wants to continue waving to her until the van’s driven off, but her brothers have other ideas.

Tony steps in front of him, while Thor and Bruce stand on either side. “Look,” Tony says. “We didn’t like you at first, but there are certain things you go through with people that makes you friends for life, whether you like it or not. Helping us kill a crazy pig using a badass shot to the eye socket is one of them. That’s why we’re going to let you be Natasha’s boyfriend.”

“Thanks?” says Clint. “Don’t think it’s really up to you, though. Or me.”

“Don’t be dense,” says Thor. “Of course it’s up to us.”

“Do you know how many guys sniff around Natasha in New York?” Bruce asks.

Clint’s never really thought about it, but he can imagine it’s more than he’d like.

“Don’t think so hard, it was a rhetorical question,” Tony says. “The point is, we’ll take care of anyone who comes around.”

“Look,” Clint says. “I appreciate that. I really do. But I don’t want Natasha to be with me because she’s _coerced_ to be—”

“Listen to you, _coerced_ , busting out the SAT words,” says Tony. “I get it. You’re all noble and stupid and what not. But there’s no harm in removing temptation, am I right? Of course I am.”

“He’s always right,” Bruce says, sounding part admiring, part disgusted.

“So we’ll watch out for you, buddy. All you have to do is stay faithful and don’t break her heart. Can you manage that?”

“Of course I’m not going to cheat on her—” Clint begins indignantly.

“Glad to hear it,” says Thor.

“Yes,” says Tony. “Because while we’re friends for life, it would mean that we’d have to rearrange your insides and that could really strain our friendship.”

“Okay, I get it,” Clint says. “Can you leave now?”

“Oh stop it, I’m getting all choked up,” says Tony.

“Boys,” Nick Fury barks. “Get inside, we’re leaving.”

Tony, Thor and Bruce shove their things in the trunk, then pile into the van. Clint watches as it pulls away, Natasha waving from the front seat, Tony making a “call me” gesture from the back.


	9. Chapter 9

//\\\

Three weeks later, Clint gets off the bus and starts the walk home. Phil waves to him from one of the windows, and Clint lifts a hand to wave back, but has to cover his mouth with it instead as he starts to cough, the bus kicking up a tornado’s worth of dust as it lurches off.

The Smith farm is about half a mile from where he gets dropped off, and the whole way back Clint’s thinking about what a loser he is. He’s picked up the phone a hundred times, even dialed Natasha’s full number, but has never let it connect. He’s gotten a letter from her, but he still hasn’t replied. Clint’s started and stopped a dozen letters in response, but he doesn’t know what to say that doesn’t sound stupid and trite. He hasn’t heard from her since, and figures she’s probably given up on him. Now he’s going to have to explain why he’s taken so long to respond to her letter on top of whatever else he ends up writing.

Clint enters through the kitchen, letting the screen door bang shut behind him. He grabs an apple from the fruit bowl on the table and enters the family room, on the way to the stairs that lead up to the second floor, where his room is. Since Anna isn’t in the kitchen where she normally is, Clint figures she’s gone into town with Paul. He doesn’t expect them to be seated together on the couch, looking at him expectantly when he enters.

His heart falls somewhere to his ankles. This scene has played out before, in other towns, other family rooms, with other people. He tries not to be disappointed, tries not to be hurt, tries to prepare himself for the “it’s not you, it’s us” speech. Clint has actually liked it here, liked Anna and Paul, made an effort to keep his head low, stay out of trouble, and not create problems for them. Apparently it still hasn’t been good enough.

Clint sits down in the armchair that faces them. He swallows the bite of apple he’d taken, and it’s harder to choke down than it should be.

“When were you going to tell us about this?” Anna says, and for the first time, Clint notices that Paul is holding a piece of paper. A very thick, expensive-looking piece of paper.

He tries furiously to think of what it could possibly say. A note from the principal? But about what? Clint hasn’t done anything. He’s stayed so low on the radar that half his teachers don’t even know his name. A note from another parent? But he hasn’t gotten into any fights, and pretty much the only other student he interacts with is Phil. He comes up totally blank, and gives up trying to guess after an extended silence.

“I’m sorry,” Clint says. He doesn’t know for what, but it seems like the wisest response for whatever it is.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Anna says, and reaches out to pat his hand. Hers is wrinkled and spotted, but warm and dry. “We just wish we’d known. You must have been so nervous, waiting to find out if you’d gotten in.”

Clint looks at her blankly. “Gotten in?”

“Oh Paul, he doesn’t even know yet!” Anna says, pushing her husband to give Clint the paper.

Paul hands the letter to Clint, who takes it somewhat gingerly. _What the hell are they talking about?_ “Good job,” Paul says gruffly, and Clint knows this is high praise from a man who generally doesn’t speak much.

Clint scans the letter quickly. He absorbs enough to understand that he’s been accepted by some private school. This must be a mistake. He’s never applied to any school. He hates to disappoint his foster parents, even though part of him is immensely relieved that they’re not planning to kick him out. “I didn’t—”

“Martha Himmelsbach says it’s very prestigious private high school,” Anna says, beaming. “And you got a full scholarship!”

Clint looks at the letter more carefully. It’s addressed to “Mr. Clint Barton” and his address is correct. He reads for himself what Anna has said, confirming that his room and board are completely paid for with a scholarship good for the duration of his enrollment at the school, which would be for his entire high school career, if he accepts.

“Amazing,” he says faintly.

Then he freezes as he notices that at the bottom of the typewritten text, there is a personalized, handwritten note that says, “We look forward to your arrival!” and the dot in the exclamation is a tiny little spider, complete with a red hourglass in its middle. “So it’s all right with you if I go?”

“All right with us?” Anna exclaims. “Of course you have to go! This is an enormous opportunity for you, Clint. Of course, the state has to agree, but there’s no reason to think they won’t. After all, the whole purpose of this is to find you a permanent home. It looks like you’ll be under the care of this Nick Fury.”

Clint can barely take it all in. He’s going to go to New York. He’s going to be with Natasha. And her crazy brothers, true. And her scary foster father. But mostly, Natasha. Until they finish high school. And by then, they’ll be legal adults, free to do whatever they want. Together. The reality of it starts to sink in, and Clint knows he has a stupid grin on his face. “I’ll miss you,” he says honestly. “This was the best foster home I ever had.”

“Oh,” says Anna, her eyes getting all wet and she can’t seem to say any more. She leans forward to embrace him, while Paul pats him on the back. The letter welcoming him to the Academy of Versatility, Exploration, Natural Growth, and Excellence in Recreation & Sciences crumples in Clint’s hand, but he returns the hug anyway. “Now wash up for supper. I made your favorite, chicken noodle casserole, with apple dumplings for dessert.” She beams.

Chicken noodle casserole isn’t his favorite, but Anna’s never forgotten how he packed it away the first night he’d come to stay with her and Paul. He never told her it was the first hot meal he’d had in weeks, and he was more concerned about getting the food into his belly than actually tasting it. Since then, Clint’s had plenty of opportunity to try Anna’s cooking, and it’s her meatloaf that he’ll miss when he leaves. But the chicken noodle casserole isn’t bad, and there’s something nice about someone making something for him just because they think he likes it.

In his room, Clint tosses his backpack to the floor and flops onto the bed to read the letter again. Part of him expects it to vanish into thin air if he’s not constantly reading the words. His eyes trace over the handwritten note over and over. He’s not crazy. It has to be from Natasha. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the well-worn piece of paper on which she’d scrawled her phone number a few weeks ago. He smooths it out to read the digits, even though he’d had them memorized practically since the moment she’d written them down. It was the only way he had of getting in touch with her, and Clint wasn’t about to risk that on some fragile piece of paper. He likes to see her writing though, a reminder that she gave him her number willingly, that she _wanted_ him to use it. Even if he hasn’t done anything about it yet.

He sits up, picks up the phone as he has countless times before, and punches in the number. His heart beats erratically as he hears it ring once, twice. This is about as far as he’s ever gone, and he grips the receiver tightly to his ear, practicing in his head what he’ll say to the person who picks up on the other end. She seems to live at some kind of school, so does he just ask for Natasha? What will he say if they ask what he’s calling for?

“Hello?”

It’s Natasha. She sounds a bit breathless but it’s definitely her. Clint’s so surprised that he says “Hey,” as if it’s been three hours instead of three weeks since they last spoke.

There’s a pause on the other end, long enough that it gives him time to kick himself mentally several times over.

“Hey,” she responds, and he can’t tell from the one syllable if she’s glad to hear from him or annoyed that it’s taken him so long to call or if she even knows who he is.

“Natasha?”

“Yes?”

“This is Clint. Clint Barton.” He cringes at how formal and stilted he sounds. This is a nightmare, exactly the kind of phone conversation he did _not_ want to have and why he’d avoided it for so long.

“Hi, Clint Barton.” Natasha definitely sounds amused now, and unsurprised to learn his identity. This makes Clint breathe a bit easier, and he recalls the first time she ever greeted him that way, over a pot of steaming corn. “So you _do_ have phones in Iowa.”

Clint laughs ruefully. “Yeah, I’m sorry it’s taken so long—”

“No excuses,” she says, but doesn’t sound mad.

He takes a deep breath. “So I got your letter.”

“Which one?” Natasha asks, a bit pointedly, and Clint winces.

“Both,” he says, and doesn’t bother to try and come up with an excuse this time. “The second one... about the Academy... Is it... real? There’s really a school and...”

Her voice is softer when she replies. “It’s legit. The position’s yours if you want it.” She hesitates. “I told Nick about you. I hope that’s okay. Tony vouched for you too, we all did. And Nick’s a good guy, really. You’d fit right in. But you don’t have to... I mean, if you don’t want... It’s just an option, that’s all–”

“Natasha,” Clint interrupts, and she falls silent. He struggles to put what he’s feeling into words. He thinks of Anna and chicken noodle casserole, and Natasha doing this for him, and it’s too overwhelming, so he settles for, “Thank you,” and doesn’t even care that his voice has gone all hoarse and might have even cracked a bit.

“You can thank me when you get here.” Her voice sounds light, relieved.

“As soon as I can,” Clint says, and means it.

“I’m serious. I have a list.”

He grins into the phone. “I can’t wait to see it.” It has nothing to do with the fact that he can’t imagine he won’t enjoy thanking Natasha in all the ways she’s dreamed up. Mostly nothing.

For the first time in a long time, Clint lets himself think about the future.

= end =

**Author's Note:**

> Well, it's over. *sniff* I started this ages and ages ago, which is kind of hard to believe. I was procrastinating from writing some other stuff, and this happened when I was looking through prompts for the be_compromised promptathon. You know how it goes: plot bunnies strike, spirit you off into the night, and make you work to the bone until you’ve produced what they want you to produce! Even if it’s cracky teenage Avengers at summer camp. I’m as much a victim in all this as you! Still, I really hope you enjoyed the ride. :D
> 
> No actual wild boars were harmed during the writing of this story. Also, in reality such creatures are more likely to avoid human interaction than attack us, so let’s assume that even though Tony sounded paranoid and nuts, there might’ve been some merit to what he was suggesting about its aggression due to being genetically altered. He knows about stuff like that.


End file.
